


Dethlove

by hjbender



Category: Metalocalypse
Genre: Bad Jokes, Bad Puns, Blood and Gore, Bodily Functions, Breaking the Fourth Wall, Bromance, Buckets of Bodily Fluids, Canon-Typical Homophobia, Canon-Typical Violence, Dis story is dildos, Drug Use, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Friendship, Gallows Humor, Lots of Vomit, M/M, Serious Injuries, Slapstick, Vomit, bad everything
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-10-29
Updated: 2006-10-29
Packaged: 2019-03-22 15:52:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 34,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13767438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hjbender/pseuds/hjbender
Summary: Toki suffers a debilitating accident feeding the rats one Saturday, and Nathan's life will never be the same again.





	1. Dungeons and Ratguts

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this story back in 2006 and posted it at a little LiveJournal community called Sausage Festival, which I will always hold very close to my ass. It's a little bit dated and not my best work, but I hope you guys [still continue to] enjoy it.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Toki accidentally slaughters some vermin, Nathan gets a hardon, and Dethklok's next album is ready for production.

It was the second Saturday of the month, which meant that somebody had to go down into the dungeon and feed the rats. But not literally, like with themselves being the walking rat buffet. No, these rats ate peanut butter sandwiches and crickets—or peanut butter and cricket sandwiches—and six gallons of skim milk, because Toki said that theys would all chokes on de peanuts butter and cricket legs if they didn't have somethings to drink.   
  
The rats were part of a long-forgotten side project started after Dethklok's first world tour, an attempt to breed an army of corpse-eating vermin. It quickly became apparent that the rats didn't want to eat corpses, so the band finally gave up and let them run wild and breed like crazy down in the dungeon-slash-basement. And because none of the Mordhaus employees were suicidal enough to feed the rats—some of which were the size of small dogs—no matter how much money was shoved into their orifices, the members of Dethklok usually ended up doing it themselves. They drew slips of paper from a Chinese-bone salad bowl (not bone china—there  _is_  a difference) twice a month. There were two names on each slip of paper, since it was always safer to do things in pairs or threes. Like sex and recreational drugs.  
  
Pickles, slightly hungover from last night's booze binge and shamelessly scratching his balls in front of everyone at the ~~breakfast~~ lunch table, squinted blearily at the slip of paper he had pulled from the bowl. "Pull an' Muffin. What th' hell dude, did somebody screw around with the bowl again?"  
  
Skwisgaar leaned over to see for himself. "Its says Toki and Nathan, dummy. Do you needs glasses or somethings?"  
  
"Yer gonna need glasses to see t'ru the black eyes'm about ta give ya."  
  
"Fine, be a mister crankys." Skwisgaar retreated and rolled his eyes. "Somebodys must have wakes up on de wrong sides of tracks."  
  
Nathan finished his fourth cup of coffee and set his empty skull mug on the table with a heavy  _thunk_. "I fed the rats last month with Murderface already. I shouldn't have to do it two times in a row."  
  
Murderface was reading the obituaries and chuckling through his gap like a leaking air mattress. Totally ignoring everyone else. This was one of the few moments of happiness he allowed himself.  
  
"What about Skwisgaar?" Nathan grunted. "He hasn't had rat duty since August."  
  
"Sorry, man." Pickles half-shrugged. "That's jest the way it goes. Chance, y'know. Ratio an' likelihood an' all that crap. Everyone's names're on these papers."  
  
"I thinks Skwisgaar may be taking his names out on purpose," Toki muttered conspiratorially, munching his grilled cheese sandwich. "He never gets picks."  
  
"Shut up, Turkey," snapped Skwisgaar.  
  
"You shuts up, cheater . . ." Toki fumbled. ". . . cheater-eats a pumpkin's peter!"   
  
"Oh my Gad the both of ya shut the hell up," Pickles moaned, hand over his eyes. "I'm gonna barf piss if ya keep talkin about food."  
  
Murderface lifted his head. "Shumbody shay pish?"  
  
"I did."  
  
"Oh."  
  
Toki was intrigued. "You is gonna to barfs piss? Or barfs first, then piss?"  
  
"I wonder if it's posshible to pish barf?" Murderface pondered. "You can pish  _when_  you barf, but barfing pish might be—"  
  
Pickles promptly barfed on the table. Whether it was piss or not, nobody knew, but it sure smelled enough like piss that everybody took his word for it.  
  
Nathan stood from his chair while Pickles continued to heave an incredible amount of partially-digested alcohol all over the tabletop. "Uh . . . okay. Rats it is. C'mon, Toki."  
  
"But I haffen't finish my grills cheesy san—"  
  
"NOW, TOKI."  
  
"Okays. I'll just brings it down with me."

Halfway down to the dungeon, Toki and his grilled cheese sandwich had become the biggest thing to hit the rat race since the Bubonic Plague, and he was shooing them off of his pants and boots by the dozen. They were crowding worse than groupies on speed, but at least Toki didn't feel bad about kicking people in the eye. He liked rats. But that fucking sandwich was  _his_ , and he was going to eat it before the rats did, so help him Judas Priest.  
  
Nathan was starting to get annoyed by Toki's squealing and complaining, and he was trying hard to remember just how he had ended up being the one carrying all the rat food down the impossibly steep, slippery, moldering, crumbling, potentially-life-ending stone staircase. They really needed an elevator down here.  
  
"Toki, keep the damn light still," Nathan growled over his shoulder. "I can't see with you thrashing all over the place."  
  
Many many stairs behind him, Toki held high a battery-powered Dethlantern in one hand and his grilled cheese sandwich in the other. He shook his legs with each step to dislodge the rats crawling up his pants, but it wasn't doing him any good.  
  
"Damn rats!" he cried, sending two dozen of the large, red-eyed rodents scattering. "How many times I got to tells yous, this is not your foods! This is Toki foods, not yours! Stops crawlings on me and gets out of de ways before I steps on—"  
  
Just then he lost his balance and accidentally stepped on a rat. Toki wasn't a heavy guy, but his boots were at least one-third his entire body weight, so that rat didn't stand a chance. It let out a shriek as both its eyeballs popped out of its head like champagne corks, and its ribcage snapped like toothpicks, and guts and blood burst from its ass.   
  
This took about .73 seconds. The slippery mess that was once a rat had lubed the stairs better than buttery-spread K-Y jelly, and Toki had just enough time to scream "OH M—" before his foot went sailing out from underneath him and he began to roll ass-over-tit down the stairs like a barrel, squishing rats by the pound and leaving a trail of slimy red smears in his wake.  
  
Nathan looked behind him when he heard the noise and saw Toki doing a screaming slalom at 45 miles-per-hour right toward him, and he bellowed in horror "MOTHERF—" before the world's second-fastest guitarist plowed right into him.   
  
You'd think that Toki and Nathan would both tumble down the stairs together and then end up at the bottom together in a breathless tangle of limbs, with Nathan crushing the bejesus out of Toki and the both of them covered in blood and snot and spit, and then they'd start mashing tongues after passionately declaring their love for each other, right? Well it didn't fucking happen, you sleazebags. Nathan was just too big, and Toki didn't have enough momentum to knock him over anyway.  
  
The rats were fleeing the scene of massacre as Nathan dropped the supplies and stooped down to inspect Toki, who was covered in rat blood and rat shit and itty bitty rat bowels. "Holy crap, Toki. That was brutal," he muttered, trying to find Toki's face in the knot of legs and hair. "Are you, uh . . . you hurt?"  
  
Toki's face came into view. His right cheekbone was bruised, his temple was pouring blood, and he had melted cheese in his Fu Manchu. And apparently he had broken his arm . . . if the ulna jutting out of his flesh were any indication. But Toki was a tough little krumkake and had the capacity of being a blunt, insensitive bastard sometimes, even if he was considered the "most normal" of the band. So when he started to cry, it didn't surprise Nathan at all.  
  
"Hey Toki, don't . . . uh, cry," he said in his best "comforting" voice, and only succeeded in sounding like  _Full House-_ era Bob Saget if  _Full House-_ era Bob Saget gargled gasoline and threw a lighted match down his throat. "It's okay. Just don't think about the pain. Hey, the bone looks really neat, sticking out of your arm like that . . . you, uh—"  
  
"You stupids hardon!" Toki wailed, waving his bloodied limbs about. "I not crying about de pains—I kills de poor rats! I KILLS THEM, NATHAN! I shoulda just share my grills cheesy sandswich with thems, buts I didn't! And now they dead! They's just wants some foods, and I KILLS thems!"  
  
"Toki . . . are you high? I know it's a stupid question, but I just had to ask, 'cause . . ."  
  
Toki responded by throwing up grilled cheese sandwich all over Nathan's boots. It smelled like lunch. "I can't feels my foots," he moaned when he was done, wiping the puke off his chin with his good arm.  
  
"That's probably because they're folded up under your shins," said Nathan. "You know . . . fuck these goddamn rats. They can just fuckin eat each other. C'mon." He picked Toki up in his arms and began to carry him up the stairs.  
  
There was positively nothing romantic about this at all.  
  
As he hefted the injured little guy up the stairs—boy those boots weighed a fucking  _ton_ —Nathan thought about stuff. He wasn't used to doing that, at least not the real deep important things, but something had made him think. He was thinking about Toki, and the way he had crushed the life right out of that rat and then fell the fuck down the stairs, and had gushing blood wounds and a splintered bone sticking out of his blood-drenched arm, and he was covered in stinking, still-warm rat guts, and had violently thrown up on Nathan's boots to end it all. And even then, Toki was more concerned about the mangy little flea-bitten hell-spawns he had mowed down than his own grotesque injuries. And that, Nathan thought with admiration, that was fucking  _metal_  right there. Toki was more awesomely brutal than he looked.   
  
What a rush of inspiration; suddenly Dethklok's next album was right in Nathan's mind—Dungeons & Ratguts—with songs like  _Bathed in Bile, Compound Fracture,_  and  _Vermin Genocide_ , set to that same rhythmic tempo that Toki had made when he crashed down the stairs like a body bag . . . without the bag part. It would be heavy and brutal and holy goddamn he needed to write this down, it was  _golden_.  
  
But these happy fuzzy thoughts didn't last long, because an uncomfortable feeling in the crotch of Nathan's jeans alerted him to the horrifying fact that he had just popped a  _huge boner_. Thinking about Toki doing all that horrendous, wonderful shit and the ideas for their next album must have gone straight to his dick, and now Nathan stopped in his tracks and uttered, "Oh my fucking LORD."  
  
"What's de matters?" Toki mumbled, arm dangling limply by his side. "Something's wrong?"  
  
Oh, Toki. You don't even know.  
  
Yet.

After delivering Toki to the in-house emergency staff and after twelve minutes in the john with the latest issue of  _Valkyrie Vixens_ , Nathan called a band meeting that evening to discuss plans for the new album.  
  
"But we jest released the DethCyclone 'Live in Chernobyl Hammer-Sickle-Homicide Russian Remix' eight months ago!" Pickles complained, tossing back six Advil with a rum and cola chaser.   
  
"Yeah," Skwisgaar griped, "I thought we's plans to takes de year off."  
  
"We can't shtart another album!" Murderface roared, planting his Bowie into the already mangled table in the conference room. "I jusht shtarted my bonshai-trimming lesshons lasht week! I've got the makingsh of a mashter trimmer, Shenshei Yakamura shaid sho!" Spit was flying  _every_ where. Skwisgaar was actually wearing a rain poncho designed for exactly this sort of thing.  
  
"Look, I know you all have plans and side projects you wanna do," Nathan explained gutturally, "but I'm telling you, this thing will fuckin blow the balls off of DethCyclone. We could even use those damn rats in our concerts, sell them as pets or something. Have a whole vermin franchise, maybe even a movie based off the music video for the single . . ."  
  
The others seemed to be digesting the possibility of becoming even more filthy stinking rich and famous when finally somebody noticed the obvious: "Hey, where'sh Toki?"  
  
"The hospital."  
  
"What de hells he is doings dere?" Skwisgaar demanded. "He's not been eatings de free candies again, has he?"  
  
"He fell down the dungeon stairs and killed a whole shitloada rats," Nathan said with a facial expression that just might have been a smile . . . or the sign of an upset bowel. "You guys shoulda seen it. It was brutal. Like . . . blood n' guts on a slip n' slide."  
  
"That'sh a good shong title."  
  
"Toki killed rats? No way, he loves those things," Pickles pshht'd. "If it weren't fer him, we'da left those sons a bitches to die down there."  
  
"He likes animals," Skwisgaar said, for once getting all his S's in the right place.  
  
"It was an accident," Nathan grumbled softly. "He broke his arm and I think both his ankles, too. And he threw up. Think he mighta hit his head. It was bleeding pretty bad."  
  
"Wowwww," said everyone else, sincerely impressed. No, really. This is Toki we're talking about here.  
  
"Sho Toki's the inshpiration for the new album?" Murderface asked, cheerfully chipping chunks out of the table.  
  
"Uh. Nuh-yeah . . . um, kinda."  
  
"I think it sounds great," Pickles admitted. "The whole rat thing. Maybe we can give 'im his own song, y'know, since he's in the hospital now an' whatever. Or he can do a solo-open at the concert, an' we can get a rat god outfit for 'im or—"  
  
"A rat's costumes?" Skwisgaar inquired with both delight disgust in his voice. "Huh huh, I thinks he would likes dat a lot. Little rat playings de guitars, with ears and—"  
  
"No, no. Like the rat god—there's a rat god, ain't there? Don't the Hindus got one 'a those? With the temples n' all where the rats live an' people feed 'em—"  
  
"You mean Mordhaush?"  
  
"Yeah, we's already does dat in de basefloors."  
  
"No, douchebags. I mean like the . . . ah, fuck it." Pickles downed another alcoholic beverage and gave up.  
  
Nathan was oddly quiet.  
  
"So," Skwisgaar said after a while, "what's does Toki says abouts all dis?"  
  
"He doesn't know," muttered Nathan.  
  
"Well, hell!" Pickles slapped both hands on the table and stood up. "We need t' tell 'im. C'mon, dudes. Let's go t' the hospital."  
  
"Yeah! I wanna shnap hish bonesh back into plache! I hope they haven't done that already. I'll be dishappointed."


	2. 57 Swear Words (Give or Take a Few)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ~~Choki nearly Tokes~~ Toki nearly chokes Skwisgaar to death, a swear word is guaranteed in [almost] every paragraph, and Nathan hallucinates being chased by Viking penises.

The members of Dethklok were involved in enough savage accidents on a daily basis to warrant a small hospital being built within the Mordhaus grounds. Its name was Saint En's. (Yeah, I know, it's a terrible pun but they were all stoned when they came up with it.) Having an emergency room practically nextdoor comes in pretty handy for those normal, everyday injuries like severed digits or alcohol poisoning or skin grafts. Just the usual playground boo-boos.  
  
By the time the band arrived, Toki's ulna had already been set (much to Muderface's dishappointment) and he now sported a blue camouflage cast on his right forearm. He had matching knee-high casts on both legs, too. He looked bright and chipper when they entered his room; he was sitting up and coloring in a Gummi Bears activity book with a black crayon that was down to the last few centimeters of wax; of course, this might have just been the morphine they were seeing.  
  
He glanced up when they shuffled in. "Hi guys!" he greeted with a glazed grin and a little wave.  
  
Yeah. Definitely the morphine.  
  
"We heards what happen," Skwisgaar murmured, walking over to the hospital bed and tapping at the bloody bandage around Toki's forehead. "I hopes you is not retarded now. We sorts of needs you."  
  
"Fer the new album," Murderface amended grimly, then went back to searching the room for something fragile to break and/or stab, and mumbling about the beauty of medical-assisted suicide.  
  
Toki looked at his bandmates with a face of horror. "You is makings a new one already? But we just—"  
  
"Yeah yeah," Pickles interrupted, "I know it's sooner n' we planned, but Nate'n says it's gonna be real kick ass compared to the last one, and we all thought that it'd be—"  
  
Toki flipped. It brought back horrific memories of endorsement-candy-induced mania for everybody. "YOU CAN'T MAKES ANOTHER ALBUM NOW!" he ranted, sending crayons spraying into the air when he reached up and grabbed Skwisgaar by the shirt collar. "MY BONES IS BROKEN IN MY ARM! I CAN'TS PLAY DE GUITAR WITS A FUCKING CATS ON ME!" His voice was cracking hilariously. "ARE YOU TELLINGS ME IT'S OVERS!? YOU IS GOING TO PUTS ME TO SLEEPS!? I NOT DEAD YET, YOU FUCKING SON OF BITCHES!" Then he proceeded to shake Skwisgaar to the point of dislocating every disc in his spinal column. Whatever pain killers Toki was on, it wasn't enough. He needed tranquilizers. Possibly a prescription for a good anti-psychotic.  
  
"Jeezez  _Christ_!" Pickles screamed, watching the attempted homicide take place from a safe distance away. He would never be out of his mind enough to get involved in a long-haired Scandinavian bitch-brawl.  
  
"This was  _your_  ideas, wasn't it!?" Toki shrilled, wrenching the Swede around. "You is trying to gets rids of me! No competencetitions anymore! I goings to  _KILLS_  YOU!  _JÆVLA SVENSKE!_ "  
  
"Togrrukiyu diyerghkildohhrgh-!" replied Skwisgaar.  
  
"HOSHPITAL FIIIGHT!" Murderface declared, hurling a visitor's chair through the door and kicking over an IV pole. Skwisgaar was screaming. Toki was screaming. Pickles was screaming. It was a three part harmony of screaming—baritone, tenor and alto respectively—and it actually sounded quite good. Too bad they could never do this on stage, otherwise they'd be the first heavy metal barber shop triplet in the history of music.  
  
Nathan stood by and glared silently at everyone as the situation quickly deteriorated into pandemonium. Only when he realized that Toki just might be capable of shaking Skwisgaar into full-body traction did he decide to jump in.  
  
" **EVERYBODY SHUT THE FUCK UUUUP.** "   
  
Utter silence descended. Seismographs in the surrounding region picked up a 2.5 on their Richter scales. The four other members of Dethklok froze.   
  
Nathan wiped a bit of bloody spittle from his jaw and brushed back a strand of hair. "Thank you. Now that I . . . that I've got your attention. Murderface. Bedpans are not helmets. Toki. Let go of Skwisgaar before you both choke to death on each other's hair. And for the love of Rhoads, everyone STOP THE DAMN SCREAMING."  
  
Skwisgaar let out a wheeze like folding accordion bellows and slipped from his assailant's grasp, crumpling to the floor. Toki had passed from the anger stage and into the acceptance stage: he laid himself down with a soft moan and drew the covers over his head like a corpse. He pronounced himself dead to all in the room.  
  
"Would you calm the hell down, Toki," Nathan muttered, stalking over to the bed and throwing back the sheets. "We're not getting rid of you."  
  
"Yeah," Pickles added with a nervous laugh. "Wouldn't be right, y'know, cannin the guy who inspired it all."  
  
Toki looked adorably stupid. "What?"  
  
"You tell 'im, Nate'n, it was  _yer_  vision."  
  
Nate'n stared down at Toki with no facial expression whatsoever. All he saw in his mind were blood buckets and rat guts and the F-word spoken on cute little mustachioed-framed lips and protruding bones and oh fucking sweet holy shit he was  _not_  getting turned on again, not in the goddamned hospital in front of everyone . . . but he was. And he was quite certain he could hear the stitches in his jeans starting to pop.  
  
"Nate'n?" Pickled inquired, one red eyebrow arched. "You okay? Yer face looks weird."  
  
"Uh. I gotta . . . crap." Pause. "Be right back." And he left the room, just like that.  
  
"Well that wazsh peculiar," Murderface noted, crossing his arms.   
  
Pickles nudged Skwisgaar's body with his foot. "Hey uh, guys. I think Skwiss might need some medical attention . . . er a mortician."  
  
"Forgets about him, what's about me!?" Toki cried. "How is I goings to play? Ahhh-haaaa-rhhhhh!" And then he made the mistake of throwing an arm to his forehead in dismay, and ended up giving himself a really awesome blowjob. Flat out on the bed again. Snot and bloody chiclets everywhere.   
  
"Kid'zsh gettin' pretty good at that," said Murderface appreciatively.  
  
That was looking on the bright side of things. Toki earned his 2nd concussion of the day and another 24 hours at Saint En's Hospital.

Nathan wasn't at the point of panicking yet. It was no secret that he got off on blood and gore and extreme violence, and if his dick was as stupid or stupider than he was, then he had nothing to worry about. Just a natural reaction to what turned him on. It wasn't about the person, it was all about the context. 'Cause Toki Wartooth was not a sex symbol.  
  
Throb. Ache. Swell.  
  
Nathan's note to self: Never use  _that_  name with  _that_  description ever, ever again.  
  
The Dethklok frontman was sitting in bed at some ungodly hour, properly smashed for the night and bearing his trusty voice recorder in hand, scribbling lyrics in a composition notebook carved all to hell and illustrated with skulls, knives and dead bleeding daisies. Perhaps he was a little  _too_  smashed—his thoughts kept returning to a young Norwegian with ice-blue eyes and a poor grasp of English and . . .  
  
"—something . . . uh, something heavy with the, the, the…the bass in that last, uh, bridge, like a . . . goddammit." Nathan clicked off the recorder and stabbed his pen in the center of the page he was writing on. "I can't fuckin concentrate."  
  
Of course, he was far too wasted to realize that it  _might_  just be the fact that he was far too wasted to realize that it might not have been Toki Wartooth alone disrupting his thoughts, but rather the volatile cocktail of illegal substances that was his customary nightcap.   
  
But let's not get all technical. The big issue here was that Nathan was extremely worried that he might be becoming attracted to Toki, and the band was too young to have its members coming out of the closet just yet. Maybe 25 years from now, sure, but  _right_  now would be awesomely sucky timing. Of course, pretty much everyone was prepared for the day when Skwisgaar would show up wearing his hair in braided buns and a dress right out of his mother's Miss Sweden wardrobe, sequins and all. Nope, no surprises there. But if mother Nathan fucking Explosion was at all suspected of being a prancing, weepy little Bryan Adams-squealing fairy . . .  
  
"I'm not gay." There. He said it. Sounded good enough, and he never had a problem believing his own words before. He clicked the recorder back on again. "Okay . . . where was I. Oh yeah. So the bass line'll be—"  
  
A knock on Nathan's bedroom door cut his sentence short. Who the FUCK was knocking on his door at this fucking hour of the night.  
  
"Nate'n?"   
  
Oh hell no it wasn't.  
  
"Are you sleepings?"  
  
Go away go away go away god _dammit_  just go away please fuckin go away.  
  
"I knows you awake because I heards you talking before."  
  
What the hell is he doing out there?  _How_  the hell is he doing out there? Didn't the doctors banish him to crutches for the next two months or something? He doesn't need to be hobbling all over the house with both of his frigging ankles broken, the dumbass. What could that idiot possibly want? A spinal injury? Partial paralysis? Nathan didn't wanna fuck a goddamn cripple—OH NO GOD, NO. HE DID NOT JUST THINK THAT. Nathan didn't wanna fuck anything or anyone (not right now anyway), especially not the cripple outside his bedroom door. Thought gone. Deleted. Erased. Eradicated. Destroyed-  
  
"Nathan? I wants to talk to you." Informalities gone. Playful accent overridden. He was getting annoyed. This was serious.   
  
Nathan Explosion was most definitely at the point of panicking right now. And when Nathan Explosion panicked, he did stupid shit that he always regretted later. And this is exactly why he sprang out of bed, stomped to his door, threw it open hard enough to splinter the wood, and snarled, "What the fuck do you wanna talk about right now, Toki, I'm kinda busy."  
  
The world's second-fastest guitarist, posed awkwardly on a pair of crutches, tried to mask his initial terror at seeing Mr Ultimate Darkness pissed off and in his skivvies, and somehow managed to look aggravated in spite of this pants-shittingly frightening image. "De new albums."  
  
". . . that's all? Can't you just wait till tomorrow, when I don't feel like breaking whatever isn't already broken in your friggin body?"  
  
Toki raised his right arm, displaying his cast. "You says I inspires it all. Nobody's else is telling me anythings, when I thinks I needs to have at de leasts a good reason. Why you such mean bitch to me all de suddens?"  
  
Wow. That hurt, especially coming from such a sweet guy like- NO. No, nonono. Fuckin ay no, Nate, just slam that goddamn door RIGHT NOW and dude you're panicking like a teenage girl who just got dumped the night before prom, for the love of Christ calm down before you—  
  
"I'm sorry."  
  
Where the shit did  _that_  come from?  
  
Nathan looked anywhere but Toki's face. "I've been avoiding you 'cause I feel really bad about you getting hurt. I mean, it was sorta my fault anyway . . . kinda. The guilt's just been real bad."  
  
What the hell is  _this_? Some kind of gay-ass emotional heavy metal  _soap opera_? Get a hold of yourself, Nathan! Don't puss out like this!  
  
But Toki. Was just. Too damn cute when he smiled like that.  
  
"Reallys?" Smiling like his day had just been made. "That's not too much bad. Why didn't you just tells me before?"  
  
~~_Because I think I've got the hots for you._~~  
  
~~_Because you make me hard enough to break a brick on my dick._~~  
  
_Because I'd rather saw my skull open and eat my own brains with a fondue fork than say anything to you. Yeah. Go with that one._  
  
"Because I'd rather saw my sk—"  
  
"So tells me about de new albums!" Toki cheerfully invited himself into Nathan's room, stumbling hilariously on those crutches. Nathan would have been holding back snarls of laughter at any other time, but he was too horrified by the fact that Toki seemed to be making right for the bed and—oh dear God he just sat down on it. He didn't seem at all fazed, putting his crutches aside and picking up Nathan's composition book.  
  
"So you already startings on de lyric?  _Vomit on My Boots_ , that sound like real cool titles. Was that whens I throwed up all over your shoes? Ha ha! That's kinda fun—"  
  
Nathan marched over and swiped his notebook from Toki's hand.   
  
"Ah! Hey, what's de hell, man?"  
  
"I don't like people seeing my work in progress."  
  
"Why not?"  
  
"I. Because I . . . because."  
  
Toki rolled his eyes and pffted in a perfect Skwisgaar imitation. Nathan was slightly offended. Toki never imitated  _him_  . . . wait wait WAIT. Just shut up. Jesus Christ, this was going to be impossible. Nathan just needed to toss that little bastard out of the room right now, before something really bad happened.  
  
"You gots anythings to drink?" Toki asked, rolling over on his stomach and beginning to dig around under the mattress. "I wants to see what is happen whens alcohol meet de pain pills de doctors give me."  
  
"Heyheyhey HEY. The hell do you think you're doing? That's my stash!"  
  
"I know. Is where I keeps mine too, but I ain't gots nothings good left. Oh boy, I thinks I find somethings . . . whiskey, wowie!"  
  
Nathan paled when he saw his special flask with the skull and crossbones on it. "Woah. Wait a minute, Toki, that's uh, that's some really powerful stuff right there. I'm not kidding, it'll fuck you up after—"  
  
But Toki had already unscrewed the cap and taken a hearty swig. Ohhh  _good_. The situation had just gone from bad to worse to having diarrhea at a public library where you swear to God everyone can hear you in the bathroom taking the most violent shit of your life. This was a fucking nightmare.   
  
"Ahh!" Toki sighed, wiping his mouth and wincing. "No kidding, I thinks my tongue is sizzles!"  
  
_I really don't wanna hear about your stupid tongue right now, Toki._  
  
Another huge gulp. "So tells me more abouts de songs of . . . boy, is heating up in here."  
  
_I really, **really**  don't wanna hear about your stupid body temperature right now, Toki._  
  
"Are you gonna writes a song about de rats I kills? I thinks that be nice. I kills a lot of them, so it can be likes a funeral song for—"  
  
And then Nathan just couldn't stand it anymore—he turned on his heel and pounded out of his room, slamming the door closed on his way out. There. Nathan heaved a sigh of relief once he was out in the hallway. Crisis averted. It felt better knowing that there was now a big thick piece of wood between him and Toki . . . OH GOD. OH MY GOD. No no no no no no not wood, not wood, knock wood NO don't knock wood, don't knock wood, don't cock wood OH JESUS NO not cock knock wood would knock cock FUCK COCK KNOCK TOCK TOKI'S COCK—  
  
Nathan Explosion wasn't much for sprinting, not ever since high school football, but he quickly found that complete and utter terror lent him surprising swiftness; he was suddenly barreling down the corridor in his underwear, bellowing like a birthing rhinoceros and fighting back the million Norwegian penises with Fu Manchus that were chasing after him.  
  
This was also the last night that Nathan would ever drop acid before bedtime.

I'm sure there's something deeply psychological about the way that Nathan ran straight to Pickles' room. But hang on, I think we're about to find out why:  
  
BANG BANG BANG BANG. "Let me in, Pickles. Hey! Pickles! You hear me? Wake up in there, you dick!" BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG—  
  
The door flew open and Nathan accidentally punched the Irish-American drummer right in the forehead.   
  
"Oh Jesus, Pickles! Get out of the way next time! . . . Uh, are you okay?"

Pickles looked as if he had just woken up from an alcohol-induced coma, and from his position sprawled out on the floor he rubbed his forehead and answered, "Gee. Lemme think . . . um, NO."  
  
"Huh?"  
  
"Ya fuckin wake me up in the middle 'a the fuckin night, fuckin beatin my door off its fuckin hinges and then fuckin nail me right in the fuckin skull . . . are you havin a midnight panic attack 'r somethin?"  
  
"I need your help," Nathan confessed (but brutally).  
  
"What? Why run to  _me_?"  
  
"Because I'm going crazy."  
  
"But why run to  _me_?"  
  
"Because I think I'm falling in love."  
  
". . . but why run to  _me_?"  
  
"Because it's another guy."  
  
"BUT WHY RUN TO  _ME_?"  
  
"Snakes n' Barrels."  
  
Silence. Enough said.  
  
Pickles sighed and crawled off the floor. "Alright. Get in here, I'll see what I can do."


	3. Trashed, Lost and Strungout

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pickles and Nathan dudetalk about the dangers of manlove, Skwisgaar loses his ability to father children, and Toki makes a strange new sound.

"So," Pickles muttered, lighting up a cigarette and sitting on the edge of his mattress, "yer havin a sexual orientation crisis, eh?"  
  
"I thi . . . yeah," said Nathan gruffly, slumping down on the floor and leaning against the bed. "You got another one of those?"  
  
Pickles handed down his own cigarette and lighted another. Nathan took a grateful drag.  
  
"So who's the lucky gal?"  
  
"Don't fuckin joke about this, asshole."  
  
"I'm not jokin. Do I know 'im?"  
  
"Better than you think."  
  
"Oh shit. It's not one 'a the guys, is it?" He took the silence for a yes. "Jeezes Christ on a pogo stick, Nate . . ."  
  
"It's not like I planned this!" Nathan growled. "It just—"  
  
"Sorta happened? Yeah. That's how it works. Friggin sneaks up on ya like a mangy hyena in the dead 'a night, next thing ya know yer bein' dragged across the plains by a whole pack 'a the snarlin fuckers and—"  
  
"Wait. So you're sayin . . . a bunch of fags are gonna kidnap me and drag me outta bed in the—"  
  
"Nate'n. Quit while yer ahead." Pickles puffed smoke like a chimney. "Okay, listen. Yer insecure about yer manhood."  
  
"I am?"  
  
"Yeah. And ya wanna reestablish yer dominance with the opposite sex."  
  
"I do?"  
  
"Yeah. An' the best way to do that is ta get married." Pause. "To a woman."  
  
"I'm not getting married. Marriage is totally lame and not metal."  
  
"It's brutal."  
  
"I don't think that would exactly solve my problem."  
  
"So fuckin what?"  
  
"You really want some bitch queen from Hell lording over Mordhaus? 'Cause that's the kinda woman she'd be."  
  
"Ah, just keep 'er in a pen outside. She'll be fine."  
  
"I'm not getting married, Pickles."  
  
"D'ya not like girls 'r somethin?"  
  
"Yeah I like girls. I like 'em a lot."  
  
"Got references?"  
  
Nathan flicked ashes all over the floor. "Do the words 'high school cheerleading squad' mean anything to you?"  
  
"Hm. I see. But ya like guys too?"  
  
"I DON'T KNOW, MOTHERFUCKER. THAT'S WHY I'M HERE."  
  
"Alright alright,  _jeez_. Take a chill pill, Nate'n, Gad." Pickles wedged his cigarette between his lips and reached down to steal his pal's composition notebook out from under his arm. Nathan was too angsty to care, letting Pickles flip nonchalantly through the pages.  
  
"Hm," he muttered. "This stuff looks pretty heavy. Y'on anything there, ol' buddy?"  
  
"Actually yeah."  
  
"I can tell. Last time ya wrote somethin this brutal you was trippin so bad it took us an hour t' get ya down from the chandelier."  
  
"You'd be freakin out too if an ocean of blood wanted to drink  _you_."  
  
"Did we ever find out how ya got up there?"  
  
"Never did."  
  
Silence. Smoke wafted through the stale air. (Why does it smell like cat pee in here?) Papers rustled. "So. Have ya said anything t' Skwisgaar yet?"  
  
"Huh."  
  
"Ya haven't told 'im?"  
  
"Told him what?"  
  
". . . He  _is_  the one ya gotta crush on, right?"  
  
"FUCK NO. How could—"  
  
"Really? Wow. I thought fer sure—"  
  
"—say that kinda shit, I'd have to wait in line to fuck his stupid-"  
  
"Oh. Gad . . . damn, Nate, I thought Skwiss was bad, but  _Murderface_?"  
  
"IT'S NOT MURDERFACE EITHER, DICKHOLE."  
  
Pickles was absolutely still. "Toki.  _Toki_? Ya think yer fallin in  _love_  with—"  
  
Nathan pinched the bridge of his nose. "Please just. Shut up now. Thanks."  
  
"Wow. I jest . . . wow. I totally did not see that comin."  
  
"Welcome to the club."  
  
"Seriously?"  
  
"Pickles, if you make me say it I am gonna punch your teeth right down your throat, and you will be shitting fillings for—"  
  
"Okay okay, I believe ya. Jest. A little surprised is all. So uh . . . how'd it happen?"  
  
"When we went to feed the rats on Saturday."  
  
"Ya mean when he fell down an' creamed 'em all?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"When he broke like every friggin bone in his body?"  
  
"Yeah. I can't get that image outta my mind."  
  
"Details?"  
  
"Blood. Gore. Rat innards. The way he was screaming at me. Pissed as hell. Fuckin bone sticking out of his arm." Nathan put a hand to his forehead. "I think it was the hottest thing I've ever seen."  
  
"WOW. That is interesting."  
  
"Shut up."  
  
"I mean it. So when Toki was bein' all gross-lookin, that's when ya was most attracted to 'im?"  
  
"Yeah. But see, it's not just that."  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"He came to my room tonight."  
  
"Aw hell."  
  
"Came in, sat on my bed."  
  
"Aw hell."  
  
"Raided my stash, got into my whiskey."  
  
"Aw hell."  
  
"No blood, no gore, no rat shit. Just that little bastard . . . getting drunk on my bed."  
  
Pickles tapped his ashes and said without blinking, "Ya shoulda fucked 'im."  
  
". . . Eat shit and die, Pickles."  
  
"I'm serious. He'da never remembered. He's not the sharpest knife in the drawer."  
  
"He's foreign, you idiot. Not mentally retarded."  
  
"Jeezes. Yer defendin him already. This is worser 'n I thought. This might actually be love."  
  
". . . . . . . . . . . . FUCK."  
  
"It ain't nothin t' worry about, every guy has a gay moment in 'is life."  
  
"When's yours gonna end?"  
  
Pickles' expression slid off his face. "That's right, Nate. Go ahead n' push me. I jest can't wait t' hear what the rest 'a the band has t' say about yer little case 'a Toki Fever—"  
  
"Alright. I take it back."   
  
"That's what I thought."  
  
Silence fell again.  
  
"The fuck am I gonna do, Pickles? I can't go on like this. I can't even fuckin look at him anymore."  
  
"Ya need t' get 'im off." Smirk. "Yer mind, that is."  
  
Nathan growled under his breath.   
  
"Write a song about 'im. A love song."  
  
"Wouldn't that just make it worse?"  
  
"Not if it was the shittiest song in the whole world, the stinkinest piece 'a crap that Dethklok ever produced. Put alla yer love n'queer little mushy feelings inta that song, we'll play it, fans'll be pukin their intestines out through their noses, an' that'll be the enda that. When ya learn t' associate negativity with that song—a song about yer love fer Toki—ya won't wanna think 'a him that way no more."  
  
It took a while for all this information to sink through Nathan's dense, thick, and practically impervious skull, but it did. After a while. "Wow," he said flatly. "That's pretty cool. I didn't know you were so smart, Pickles."  
  
"I'm not," he said modestly. "I'm jest really drunk."

And so it came to pass that Nathan Explosion would write a love song, the shittiest metal love song of all time. He thanked the Cucumbrian Wisconsinite of Inebriated Wisdom for his advice, and crawled into the Mordhaus lobby elevator to sleep off the drugs coursing through his bloodstream.  
  
The very next evening he arose, fully refreshed after a nice high, and spent two hours in the shower heaving bile out through his nostrils. When he was at last back to his usual borderline-functional condition, he returned to his bedroom and did a quick scan of the premises. No Toki. Good. But the bad part was that that son of a bitch had drunk his entire stash of personal liquor. Not good. So Nathan decided to go find the rest of the band and mooch some booze off of them.  
  
The other members were discussing dinner plans, and the current argument appeared to be between those in favor of ordering take-out Chinese and those in favor of buying a Chinese restaurant. All parties involved decided that it would be most fair to flip on it. Unfortunately, Skwisgaar was the one being flipped.  
  
"If he comesh down tailzsh we buy a Chineezsh reshtaurant," Murderface stated to Pickles as they stood on the balcony overlooking the grand Mordhaus foyer.   
  
"That ain't fair," Pickles said. "Skwiss is bottom-heavy."  
  
" _I_  wouldn't know, sheeing azsh how I don't shtare at hizsh fat assh all the time."  
  
"Hey, shuts up about my ass," Skwisgaar snapped, climbing up onto the rail and wobbling unsteadily. It could obviously be assumed that he was not in a rational state of mind.  
  
"Pickle is right," said Toki, standing by on his crutches. "You does have a fat ass, Skwisgaar."  
  
"Shuts up your face, cripples."  
  
"Count of three?" Murderface offered.  
  
"Sure. Eh, ya think he'll be able to hit the couch down there? I mean, it's kind of a long fall. An' the couch is sorta narrow." Pause. "An' he's drunk."  
  
"He'll be fine," said Murderface. "If he can find the vazshina on a 400-pound whore while shmashed, he can find a couczsh from zshirty feet up."  
  
Skwisgaar tottered angrily. "Fucks you, Myurdol—" And then he slipped. One leg went one way, one leg went the other, and the rail smashed into his nuts when he came down.   
  
"Oooh." Toki, Pickles and Murderface winced in unison, cringing.  
  
Skwisgaar was motionless. Then he made a sound like a rusty door hinge opening, his eyes rolled back in his head, and he gracefully tipped over the rail, plummeting off the balcony. One second later a resounding and almighty CRACK came from below, and the three instigators cautiously peeked over the rail. Skwisgaar had successfully struck the couch. He had also flattened it. Apparently the whole thing had split apart when he landed, the impact being strong enough to dismantle its entire structure. Skwisgaar was alive, rolling in the cushions and clutching his aching gonads in both hands and groaning.   
  
Pickles turned to Murderface. "Uh, was that heads r' tails? I didn't see."  
  
"I dunno." Murderface looked over the rail once more. "You know, I think I want pizzsha."  
  
"Yeah, pizza sound better!" Toki agreed.  
  
"A'ight then, let's get pizza," said Pickles.  
  
On their way toward the stairs they met Nathan, who looked a lot worse than most of them remembered seeing him in a long time.   
  
"Hey dude, what's goin' on?" Pickles greeted, aware that he was the only thing standing between Nathan and Toki and perhaps a suicide attempt.  
  
"Nothin," Nathin muttered, deliberately not looking at the object of his affliction. "I was just kinda wondering . . . have any of you seen the couch?"  
  
"Uhhhh . . ." said Pickles and Toki.  
  
"Ashk Shkwishgaar," Murderface shrugged, walking by. "I think he uzshed it lasht. We're ordering pizzsha, whaddo you want?"  
  
"I don't know. Surprise me."  
  
They got him a pepperoni with cheese.  
  
As they all sat around their massive and hilariously expensive dining table and ate cheap, pseudo-Italian food out of cardboard boxes, Nathan began to talk business.  
  
"There's gonna be a meeting with the manager this Thursday about announcing the new album, so if any of you've got something to say before we start all this, I suggest you do it now."  
  
Murderface belched.  
  
Pickles asked Skwisgaar to pass him a beer from the icebox that was temporarily located in the crotch of the Swede's pants.  
  
Toki chewed on a chunk of his own hair that had accidentally ended up in his mouth along with his pizza.  
  
But there were no objections.  
  
"Good," Nathan grunted. "Next order of business. I'm working on some lyrics now, got . . . a coupla songs already finished, and I wanna hear what the rest of you've got lined up for music. But seeing as how two of our three guitarists are temporarily out of commission, I suggest that we just talk ideas for now."  
  
"Skwisgaar'll be fine in a few days," Pickles said, "but Toki'll be at least eight t' twelve weeks before he's ready t' start playin' again."  
  
"And wisouts practice all doze times he is goings to sound like shit," Skwisgaar muttered.  
  
"Screw yous!" Toki exclaimed in his own defense. "I can still plays . . . a little. My cats rub on de strings, but my left hands is still okay. I thinks."  
  
"Maybe he can shing inshtead."  
  
"Toki can't sings, we already knows dat," Skwisgaar muttered.  
  
Pickles mused. "Well if we get 'im  _drunk_  enough . . ."  
  
But Toki shook his head. "I'm not singing. I hates it. Is totally stupid and not cool . . . no offends to you, Nathan."  
  
Nathan shielded his eyes with a hand to his forehead and slumped down in his chair.  
  
Toki's eyebrows came together in a worried arch. "You okay, Nate'n? You hasn't said one words to me since last night."  
  
_Oh god shut up, Toki._  
  
"What happened lasht night?" Murderface then smirked evilly with his evil gap of evilness gaping in his front teeth. "Shumething we should knowww?"  
  
"Nothing happened," Nathan snarled, putting on a carnivorous face. "Just . . . talking about the new album."  
  
"Really? I don'ts remember that. I was just so much drunk, is all blurs to me. I thinks I falls asleep, 'cause all I remembers is waking up in your bed—"  
  
_GOD. **KILL ME.**_  
  
The four bandmates stared at Nathan, who suddenly realized that he had said shouted that aloud. He then began to sweat barbecue sauce. "Huh. Ha . . . ha."  
  
Pickles had no blood left in his face. At that moment he resembled a terrified version of Raggedy Ann. Blank eyes and everything.   
  
Nobody made a sound. Finally Murderface cleared his throat, which sounded like somebody dropping a load of Jell-O down a garbage disposal. "Yyyyeah. Sho, anyway . . ."  
  
"Um. Right." Nathan tried not to panic, but his eyes wouldn't listen to his brain and he ended up staring at Toki, who still had a few strands of hair dangling out of the corner of his mouth. For a moment he seemed almost relieved to have Nathan's attention, but suddenly the Lyrical Visionary suffered another acute attack of nerves.   
  
He stood up and declared, "I think I've got food poisoning. This pizza's giving me the shits." And then he was gone.  
  
Toki frowned. "That's the second times he done that. I thinks he got somethings wrong with his gusto-in-terrestrial track."  
  
"Hoo boy," Pickles muttered under his breath. "Way t' go, Nate'n."

There was a showdown that night at Mordhaus. A mighty man, overcome with guilt and frustration and afraid of his own misguided emotions, faced off with his bed. He stood like a mountain, glaring down at the crumpled sheets that had hugged the broken body of his oblivious beloved, and fought the urge to throw himself into their vile, homoerotic embrace.  
  
For like three seconds.  
  
Uttering a ragged growl of surrender, Nathan fell face first onto his bed and snorted up the smells in the sheets like free blow at Studio 54. And then he was there—Toki was. Modeling paint and balsa wood, the still-fresh fiberglass-resin casts, the L'OréalMetalhead shampoo, the liquor, the steel, the armpits that smelled better than roses just because they were Toki's. All the scents were there, and all the sense was not.  
  
_I wanna die_ , thought Nathan dully.  _I feel like shit. I don't wanna leave this room. I wanna kill something. I hate everything and everybody in the world. I wanna go to sleep and never wake up. I wish someone would just set me on fire and put me out of my misery._  
  
Yeah. This was love alright, in its most disgusting, abhorrent emo-ness. And because emo is known to be the number one cure for writer's block (or depending on your view, the number one curse for anything), Nathan suddenly felt the urge to write down all his horrible feelings.   
  
So he grabbed his composition notebook, dug a Sharpie out of his bedside table, and started to write. He got really high in the process, and by the time he was starting to wonder how Sharpie markers could smell like half-rotten bananas, he had finished. The whole notebook stunk to high heaven now, and if the crap Nathan had written wasn't enough to make himself sick then the marker fumes would be the thing do it. He tossed the notebook to the floor and rolled over, trying to get that nauseating odor out of his nostrils.  
  
Mm. Soft sheets. Toki smells. Much better.   
  
Apparently it was a little  _too_  much better, because Not-So-Li'l-Nathan had gleefully sprung into a full salute. But, looking on the bright side, at least it hadn't happened in public. Like usual.   
  
For the third time in less than a week Nathan found himself with a fistful of dick and a mindful of Toki.  _"Ya shoulda fucked 'im,"_ said Pickles. It echoed a billion times in Nathan's head, and when he spurted come into the sheets he wished—for just a moment—that he had followed Pickles' advice.  
  
He fell asleep still wanting to die, sprawled out in the rapidly-crustifying Toki-scented covers.

In the Mordhaus rehearsal auditorium someone was shredding a live guinea pig with an amplified cheese grater. Oh wait, that's only Toki playing his guitar. Never mind.  
  
Skwisgaar was in a state of physical agony. Even the earmuffs and industrial-strength earplugs weren't enough to keep the noise out. "My God he's is killing me. I t'inks I'm goings to be throwing up he's sounding so terrible."  
  
Pickles tried to be nice. "This's our first session since his accident, douchebag. Have a little compassion fer Chrissakes."   
  
"What?"  
  
"I SAID THIS'S ONLY OUR FIRST ah fuck it."  
  
Thankfully the horrendous cacophony stopped and the rest of Dethklok breathed a sigh of relief. Skwisgaar gratefully removed his auditory protection, flipping his blond hair over his shoulder with typical haughtiness.  
  
Toki looked noticeably worried as he sat awkwardly in a chair with both of his cast-encased shins sticking straight out, gazing down at the guitar in his lap. "I thinks it need some works, guys."  
  
"No shit," Murderface mumbled, upending another bottle of Aleve.  
  
"You's would sound betters if you plays wis a fucking stump-of-an-arms. Pfft." Skwisgaar fingered his guitar silently. "My mom can plays better dan yous."  
  
"Your mom can do lots of thing better than me," Toki agreed, then added maliciously: "Like sucks cock."  
  
Seventy years from now historians would agree that this was how the Second Great Scandinavian War started. Skwisgaar had hoisted his guitar above his head like an axe, shouting death-threats in Swedish while Toki egged him on with the two pointed ends of his Flying V aimed right at the other guitarist's still-tender testicles.   
  
(Kids, this is why making fun of somebody else's slutty, slattern whore of a mom isn't a good idea, no matter how tempting it may be.)  
  
But Skwisgaar was aware that he had a slutty, slattern whore of a mom anyway and was only arguing for the sake of his own pride. Luckily Nathan stepped in and saved him from a humiliating defeat by calling a truce.  
  
"Alright guys. Shut up and take five."  
  
Skwisgaar, forever alien to English idioms, asked, "Five whats?"  
  
"Minutes."  
  
"Oh."  
  
Toki's depression was apparent. "I think I needs five personal days."  
  
"You don't need five personal days," Nathan muttered, avoiding all eye contact. "You're practically getting five months' vacation so—"  
  
"This is not vacations! This is . . . broken bones hell. Sick days."  
  
"You're not sick, Toki."  
  
"Okay, then I'm broken."  
  
Nathan tried to keep his cool and not overreact. Both were slightly impossible. "Look. If you're healthy enough to play wheelchair polo up and down the halls at 3 a.m. then you're healthy enough to play the guitar. Now fuckin play that riff so we can make some goddamn progress."  
  
Toki wasn't used to anything aside from the typical harshness from Nathan, but that was just brutal. He tried to mask his surprise with an angry face, but his bottom lip was trembling.   
  
"Jeezsh Nathan," Murderface drawled, "that wuzsh a little mean don'tcha think?"  
  
"No. Alright, taking it from the top: Skwisgaar, don't worry about the licks so much for now. If Toki can't grind out a decent sound then just take over for him. I wanna see how this thing comes together. Everyone got it?"  
  
Pickles sighed and poised his sticks at his drum set as the others readied themselves. A count to three later and the metal that millions of people pay to go deaf to roared through the auditorium. No lyrics yet, just getting the feel. Nice and heavy, good solid rhythms, definitely less melodic than their usual style. Still, it just didn't sound right without Toki in there . . . But wait, the stubborn little guy finally came in at the end of that first refrain, and some kind of fantastic  _noise_  issued from his amps.   
  
The fiberglass resin of his cast scratched against the steel strings and created a sound like that of a thousand lumberjacks revving their chainsaws in a series of alternating chords. They went twice more through the refrains before they all just stopped playing and stared in awe at the crippled Norwegian.  
  
Nathan: "Holy fuckin hell."  
  
"Toki, that was the most awesome shit I've ever heard," Pickles gaped. "How'dja do that?"  
  
Toki shrugged one shoulder. "I just plays likes usual, you knows, not worry about my cats on de strings."  
  
"Well whatever the hell it izsh you're doing, keep doing it," Murderface said. "It'sh brutal."  
  
Skwisgaar pouted off to the side while Pickles cracked a wide grin at Nathan. "Sounds like somebody owes somebody an apology," he hinted with a wink-wink-nudge-nudge-say-no-more look.  
  
Nathan replied with a glare that doubled as a threat for bodily harm. Pickles opted not to say another word for the sake of his own life, and wondered how in the hell they were all going to get through this album with so many secrets threatening to destroy the lovely murderous camaraderie they shared with one another.


	4. This is not the gayest song in the world. This is just a tribute.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dethklok is exposed to Nathan's horrific love song for the first time, and whatever characters have not already thrown up in this fic do so now. Also: the three guitarists believe Nathan is dying and plan an act of mutiny that will guarantee their deaths.

Time passed like kidney stones through an inflamed urethra (i.e., slowly and painfully) but progress was made on  _Dungeons & Ratguts_. Somehow. Constant arguing kept the band from making any consistent headway for a while, but after Nathan learned to control his libido by imagining his parents having wild pig sex, he could almost act normal around Toki again. The tradeoff was that he threw up a lot more often for no apparent reason, or so the band thought. Actually, between the unprovoked barfing and constant excuses to go take a dump, the other members of Dethklok began to suspect that Nathan Explosion either had a parasite living in his body or was a couple months pregnant . . . well. That's sort of the same thing, but at least people would feel sorry for you if you had worms.  
  
Two months later Toki finally got the cast on his arm removed. No sooner was it off than he had another one made so that he could continue to make the special sawing noise on his guitar, the one that would be featured in several of the new songs. This custom cast looked a lot cooler—it was black, everyone's favorite color, had skulls painted on it—and it was removable. Toki liked wearing it just for fun. "It come in handy," he said, "for hitting things. Is like wearing armor, you knows?"  
  
But the casts on his legs wouldn't come off for a while yet. He began to complain about his armpits chafing from using his crutches too much, and the doctor told him that he really shouldn't be walking that much n-e-ways. Toki didn't want to look like a complete invalid by rolling around in a wheelchair all the time, so he had a nice leather executive chair outfitted with a scooter motor and a steering device, and he got to putt all over the house and say "Ciaooo!" to everyone. Never seemed to get tired of it.  
  
Nathan would have gotten really fucking annoyed by this if he didn't find it so damn cute.  _Cute_. God what a disgusting word. He didn't know what was more disgusting; the thought of him thinking that Toki's behavior was cute, or the word itself. Made him want to spit just to get the nastiness out of his mind.   
  
Thankfully Pickles was always around for confidential support whenever Nathan felt himself losing his grip on heterosexuality. Many a night was spent drinking cigarettes and smoking beer with good ol' Pickles, who kept reminding Nathan that this was all just a phase and that as soon as he got that horrible love song written the sooner this would be over.   
  
It helped for a little while but Toki was, to put it frankly, irresistible. There was something about the him that just . . . hell if Nathan knew.  _Something_  about him, a whole bunch of tiny likable things that weren't really all that extraordinary, but when put together made something incredible. It was a total accident, an unintentional likability about Toki. Like a nuclear meltdown that would end up saving the planet. The bright side of a root canal. It was the most goddamn frustrating thing Nathan had ever dealt with emotionally . . . maybe even the first thing he had dealt with emotionally. But if he was going to do something stupid like fall in love with a busted-up Norwegian kid, he at least wanted to know why. But he didn't know why. And it was driving him fucking.  **Crazy**.  
  
They had to hurry up and get this album finished. Nathan couldn't take this shit anymore. He wanted his life back. He wanted to go 12 hours without getting an erection (from looking at a dude). He wanted to be able to watch blood and gore on TV without thinking of Toki. He wanted to look at pictures of bound, naked Asian women on the internet and jack off happily like every other guy in the world. That was all he wanted. And if he had to humiliate himself by writing a barftastic love song, then so be it. He was ready to get this over it.

"Alright guys, listen up," Nathan muttered at rehearsal one day. "The album's sounding good so far. I think we've done some of the best recordings ever on a few of the songs—"  
  
"Likes on  _Corpse Chains_ ," Toki interrupted with a grin. "I think that ones sound real good."  
  
"Yeah, that one wuzsh pretty metal."  
  
"I didn'ts pops my E string like usuals, dat was nice."  
  
Nathan waited until the peanut gallery had shut up before continuing. "—a few of the songs. Yeah. But I still think the album's missing something."  
  
Pickles said nothing. He knew what was coming and braced himself for the atom bomb that was going to drop itself on the band. And the nuclear holocaust that would follow.  
  
Nathan elaborated. "It needs something different. Something softer."  
  
"What?" Murderface grunted, wrinkling his face into a sneer of disgust.  
  
"Something gentle and slow."  
  
Skwisgaar, Toki and Murderface stared at their frontman with expressions that began to look more and more alarmed with each passing second. And then it came out:  
  
"This album needs a love song."  
  
No one. Said. A word.   
  
Then Skwisgaar began to laugh. No one else joined him—they all seemed shocked beyond the capacity for speech. After a long dark stare from Nathan, Skwisgaar slowly got a grip and stopped tittering. "You is . . . not jokings?"  
  
"Nnno."  
  
He gulped and then his fingers began to reflexively do the can-can on his X-plorer. Quiet plinging was the only sound in the whole auditorium.  
  
"What kind of a love shong izsh it?" Murderface growled. "If it'sh something violent and pornographic then I got no problem with it—"  
  
"Loves is not metal," Toki argued. "Love's—"  
  
"Shtupid."  
  
"Lames."  
  
"Disdusking."  
  
"Gay."  
  
"Dildos."  
  
"For kiddies."  
  
"Grossh."  
  
"Painfuls."  
  
"A plaque on mankinds."  
  
"Revol—"  
  
"ENOUGH!" Nathan snarled, and his three bandmates stopped breathing.   
  
"I, uh . . . I think it's a good idea . . . ?" Pickles offered in support. Weak support. Like tooth floss holding together a suspension bridge weak.  
  
"Well then. That settles it. We're doin' a love song. If anyone has a problem with it . . . they can talk to me about it later." Nathan paused just long enough to make sure that everyone was nice and intimidated. "Alright. In that case, I got some lyrics written up and I'd like to start putting 'em to music . . ."

"It'sh okay, buddy. Jusht let it out."  
  
"I don'ts needs for yous mm. To being tellings mmuh . . . hmmrrauuughho! Ahruuugh! Bleauugh! Ahukk! Ahaugh!"  
  
"There we gohhhh. Now, doezshn't that feel better?"  
  
Murderface was squatting by the toilet and holding Skwisgaar's hair away from his face as he violently filled the bowl with hot, foamy vomit. Toki sat slumped against the bathroom wall nearby, holding a half-spent cigarette in his trembling hand and staring into space. He was trying his best not to let the sound of Skwisgaar's retching make him sick. So was Murderface, but he was not doing nearly as well.  
  
"Jeezshush fucking CHRISHTMUSH," he groaned, turning his head as Skwisgaar continued to heave. "Your barf shmellzsh like rotten caviar and curdled milk feshtering in shun-baked roadki-huuurgghhhh!" Rich brown puke gushed from his mouth and nose like a river while Skwisgaar lurched all the harder at the colorful description of his own throw-up. Between the two of them they utterly destroyed the third-floor bathroom.  
  
Toki sucked a drag off his cigarette. He never was much of a smoker, but this was a desperate situation: Nathan had presented to the rest of the band what was, in all likelihood, the single most horrific song in the entire universe. A song whose lyrics rhymed at the end of every line. A song that spoke of tenderness and compassion and devotion and all of the warm fuzzy shit that had sent three-fifths of the band into convulsions of nausea. It wasn't metal. It wasn't rock. It wasn't even music—it was banana marshmallow mother-moon-fucking pies drenched in Pepto-Bismol, topped with Pez and candy corn, and had absolutely  _no_  nutritional value whatsoever. It was a steaming crap pile and they all knew it, every last one of them. But Nathan didn't relent; he wanted the song to happen. He wanted it on the album. And there seemed to be no way to change his mind.  
  
The toilet flushed, clogged, and predictably began to overflow on the tiles. Skwisgaar rose weakly to his feet to get away from the putrid flood and slipped in vomit water, clipping the toilet seat with his shoulder on the way down. A fleshy-bony THUD—it sounded painful. Murderface belched blasphemies with every ounce of his hate-filled soul as Toki suddenly broke into dry sobs and Skwisgaar attempted to skate over to the sink. He made it after a few close calls. He cupped his hands under the faucet and drenched his face, gargled, spit, hacked, and stared at his haggard appearance in the mirror.

"We cannots lets him do it," he murmured numbly. "I can'ts take it. I cans take punk rock. Broadsway. Fucking country American's music. I cans take a fist ups my ass, but a love's song I will have shitting overs my grave." He grimaced. "My fucking head's is killing me. I t'inks dere's blood in my ears."  
  
"It'sh not alwayzsh about  _you_ , dipshit," Murderface grunted, unravelling a nearby roll of toilet paper all over Barf Lake. "You think any of ush wanna go through with thish? I just pisshed my  _pantsh_  from heaving sho hard."  
  
"I wants to go to sleeps and die," Toki mooed. "How could Nathan . . . does-doos-doing this to us? Is like he losing his marble."  
  
"Maybe mores den dat."  
  
"Huh?"  
  
"I t'inks Nathan coulds be dying," Skwisgaar said solemnly, turning away from his reflection. "He's is so sick alls de time lately . . . has you notice dis?"  
  
"A little," Toki sniffled behind his cancer stick.  
  
"He must not wants to tells us yet, dat he's dying."  
  
"And that shunnuva BITZCH iz trying to bring ush all down wif 'im!"   
  
"De captains always goes down with de ship."  
  
"Yeah but de ships isn't sinking, de fucking captains is! Why should we all suffer? Ah dis is bull's shit!" And then Toki began to cry for real. Snot and tears ran into his mustache and his cigarette tumbled from his wobbling lips and burnt a small hole in his shirt. He swatted the fire out and pulled a new cigarette from the crumpled pack in his shorts pocket. He could barely hold the Zippo he was shaking so badly. He accidentally lit his hair on fire for a moment, but he swatted that out too.  
  
It now smelled like vomit and urine and burning hair and misery in here. Murderface had run out of toilet paper and was feeling very depressed. He crawled over, drenched in puke and piss and toilet water, to sit next to Toki and stare at nothing. Skwisgaar tottered over to Toki's other side and slid down the wall to take a seat.  
  
"We's are fucked, guys," he said after a while. "Nathan's is dying. Dis will probably be ours last record ever, and de song he's is wanting us to play we can'ts play."  
  
"Dethklok izsh gonna be ruined after thish," Murderface mumbled, pulling his switchblade from his vest pocket and contemplating the veins in his left arm.  
  
" _Why_?" Toki repeated, passing his cigarette to Skwisgaar. "I don't understands how Nathan could doos this to us . . . not tells us he's dying and then makes us play a love's song so that's we can never shows our faces again in public."  
  
"Maybe he don'ts want us to forget him." Skwisgaar sighed smoke through his nostrils. "Dat's a really shitty way of doings it though."  
  
"I don't thinks I could play a love's song, even if Nathan's is dying. My fingers is like . . . arth . . . arth's . . ."  
  
"Art's right ass."  
  
"Ars right as?"  
  
"Arthritish," Muderface corrected.  
  
"Whatever. I can't plays my fucking guitar."  
  
"Nots me also."  
  
"Too bad we can't, y'know, shabotazshe the album and replache that shitty shong with a different one."  
  
No sooner had the words left Murderface's pie hole than you could hear the hamster wheels in the three guitarists' heads begin to turn. The same thought ran through all of their minds—perhaps the first real intelligent thought any of them had had all week—and it was running for its life.  
  
"Burgerface is right," Toki whispered, a rainbow of hope shining in his expression like a well-oiled ocean. "We coulds replace de song with another's before it gets release!"  
  
"Dat woulds be great," Skwisgaar said lowly, "excepts for nine things."  
  
" _Nine_?"  
  
"One: we don'ts know how to records a song on our owns. Two: we can'ts records a song on our owns because we needs de rest of de band. Three: Nathan woulds kill us. Five: Nathan woulds find out. Six: nones of us can sing. Seven: nones of us can song-writes. Eights: Nathan woulds kill us. Nine: de manager check overs everything and he would tells Nathan what's we did, and den we woulds all die."  
  
"I counts eight things only, Skwisgaar. I thinks you skips a number."  
  
"It's no matter, Toki."  
  
"And we ended up dying in a lotta thozshe optzshions."  
  
"Well dat's what's is important to remember."  
  
"Waits a minute," Toki said, sitting up suddenly. "So we can't records a new song in de studio, right? Why nots on stage?"  
  
"Hu?"  
  
"What?"  
  
"On stage! Like . . . what's if we was to records de whole album alive? We could pulls it off den! We could re-makes de song and play its at de last minute!"  
  
Skwisgaar shook his head and muttered, "I don'ts know about dat. We still can'ts song-writes, and how woulds we con . . . confinn . . . _gets_ Nathan to agree to doings it live?"  
  
"I dunno. Bring in a symphony or somethings, that won't be hard."  
  
"We could do a live releashe album firsht," Murderface mulled, tapping his knife against his wrist, "and tell Nathan it'sh a marketing gimmick. Then we releashe a 'remazshtered' verzshion a few monthsh later."  
  
"Dat's good."  
  
"Yeah I likes that idea."  
  
"Tshank you."  
  
"But . . . we still can'ts song-writes."  
  
Shadows seemed to magically and melodramatically form in the sharp recesses of Murderface's unlovely features as he whispered reverently, "Then one of ush hash to shteal Nathan'sh composhishun book."  
  
Toki and Skwisgaar gasped in unison, and somewhere the soundtrack to this fanfiction went DUN DUN DUUUUNNN.

"I think it went over pretty well," Nathan said as he sat at the conference table and made changes to the lyrics he had written in his . . . NOTEBOOK (dun dun duuuunnn).  
  
"Yeah," Pickles said with an extra helping of sarcasm. "Judgin by the bright n' happy way they all jest skipped off inta the sunset, I think it went over  _great_." He was on his second tequila of the hour and was feeling pretty sassy by now. "I can't wait fer the next rehearsal."  
  
"At least they handled it like men."  
  
"Get real. They're prob'ly all huddled t'gether somewhere an' cuttin themselves up."  
  
"C'mon, it's not  _that_  bad."  
  
"No. It's worse than bad. I mean . . . jeez Nathan, I know this's fer yer own good n' all but GAD. DAMN." Pickles took a hearty swig as if trying to wash the mental scars from his brain. "That . . . was one fuckin piece 'a song right there. Didn't know ya had it in ya."  
  
"Me either. I guess this means I'm GAY." Nathan put his stocky hands over his face and slumped.  
  
"Aw, hey, c'mon. Ya know this's only temporary. I mean, really it's . . . not so . . . here, lemme see yer notes a sec."  
  
Nathan slid his composition book across the table and Pickles thumbed through the pages until he found what he was looking for:

_I love you more than words can say_  
_i need your love both night and day_  
_i can not live without you there_  
_to hold me close with warmth and care_

_I need you now my dearest one_  
_your light shines on me like the sun_  
_take my hand we'll travel far_  
_and go to where the rainbows are_

_Love love love i love you so_  
_more than you will ever know_  
_so kiss me now and smile brite_  
_and you'll be in my dreams tonite_

_and if we never meet again_  
_my love for you will never end_  
_you'll always be here in my heart_  
_thou we may be so far apart_  
  
Pickles was suddenly gripped with the overwhelming urge to throw up, and he quickly shut the notebook. "Jeezez Christ, Nate'n, it's even worse seein it on paper. This's beyond putrid. This's like . . . gag-a-maggot, Valentine's Day Hallmark card putrid. I wouldn't wipe my ass with this."  
  
"You told me to write a love song and I did. Stop fuckin whining about it."  
  
"A'right, a'right, fine. But at least . . . y'know. Be a little sympathetic with the rest 'a the guys. It's gonna take 'em a while t' get used to this level of . . . shit."  
  
Nathan nodded tiredly. "This is the last song we have to do. Then the album's gonna be done."  
  
Pickles raised a bottle in a halfhearted toast. "At this point I'd ask God fer mercy, but I don't think we'll be goin' t' Hell anytime soon. M' pretty sure Satan hates love songs too."  
  
The two men were suddenly joined by the rest of the band—the three guitarists entered the conference room (two walking, one crutching) but made no move to sit down at the table. They remained standing, allowing Nathan and Pickles to wonder  _what in the_   ** _hell_**  had happened to them in just a few short hours: Murderface had piss stains on the front of his shorts and his shirt was covered in dried puke; Toki had burn holes in his shirt, he smelled like smoke, and he hadn't achieved that shade of skin tone since his last diabetic episode; Skwisgaar's clothes were drenched with water and he had the beginnings of the mother-of-all bruises on his right shoulder. And all three of them stunk worse than the morning after.  
  
"Hey . . . guys," Pickles said warily. "So, uh . . . whatcha been . . . up to?"  
  
"We was just talkings about . . . de love's song?" said Skwisgaar.  
  
Nathan cocked an eyebrow suspiciously.  
  
"We really likes it," Toki lied. Lied lied lied. But lied with a fake smile plastered on his face. "And we was just thinkings . . ."  
  
"How musche better it would be if we played it in conshert firsht," finished Murderface.  
  
"In concert, huh," Nathan mused.  
  
"Maybe we can does a, a lives recording?" Toki offered. "We could haves some violin or somethings in de back—"  
  
"—dat woulds really works better with de love's song—"  
  
"—sheeing azsh how theshe two can't really play shlow anyway—"  
  
"—and then we's releases that albums first—"  
  
Pickles suddenly motioned for Nathan to lean across the table, and they both put their heads together in the middle. "Nate'n," he said in a low whisper, "this could work. First exposure. Live audience. Nothin says rejection like a million dyin fans, and I'm tellin ya, that song'll have 'em shovin chopsticks through their eardrums."   
  
"You really think so?"  
  
"Absolutely. N' all it takes is one concert. Ya get yer cure. Ya get the song over with. Bam. All done. Case closed. A one time mistake, the song gets scratched from the album, we release  _Dungeons & Ratguts_ minus the love, problem solved."  
  
"That's good."  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"That's a good idea."  
  
"We should agree with 'em then."  
  
"Right." Nathan drew back and looked at his three bedraggled bandmates. "We like it. You guys can tell the manager about the idea at the next meeting."  
  
Toki let out a gigantic sigh of relief just before one of his crutches cracked and he tumbled to the floor. "Fucks!" he yelled.  
  
Boy was  _that_  a déjà vu. Images of guts and carnage danced through Nathan's memory like absinthe fairies, and suddenly he was hornier than a ten-year convict on parole. He sprang up from his chair without waiting to push it back and smashed his johnson right into the table.   
  
The only wood that was in pain was the table.  
  
"Gotta go," Nathan snapped, and then he did exactly that. Pickles shook his head sadly and finished the last of his tequila, then reached over and adopted the half-full (he was an optimist, especially when it came to booze) bottle that Nathan had left behind.  
  
Murderface and Skwisgaar took Toki by each arm and helped him back on his feet again. "Stupid crotches," he complained naïvely, steadying himself on his remaining crutch. "Damn woods is not thick enoughs—I needs some big, hard stiff woods under me."  
  
Pickles rubbed a hand over his face and thanked the Powers That Be that Nathan was not around to hear this, otherwise the guy would be filling his boxers with man jam right about now. That poor, bent son of a bitch. He probably needed a good plastering. Maybe later Pickles could have Jean-Pierre whip up some Chex Mix and 20 gallons of Hunch Punch, help cheer Nathan up a bit. The red-head staggered from the conference room in search of a place to pee, leaving Murderface, Toki and Skwisgaar alone.   
  
"When is you goings to gets doze dumb dildos off your legs?" Skwisgaar muttered. "I'm getting tires of pickings your clumsy ass offs de floor all de times."  
  
"Oh I real sorry to bothers you," Toki snapped. "Maybes you wouldn't minds me using your ugly guitar for a crotches till de next three week!"  
  
"My guitars is not ugly, yours is!"  
  
"Is not!"  
  
"Is yes!"  
  
"Shut the fuck up guyzsh," Murderface croaked so oddly that the bickering Scandinavians immediately hushed themselves. The vomit-encrusted bassist raised his arm and pointed to the table. Two pairs of eyes followed his finger until they rested upon . . . THE FORGOTTEN COMPOSITION NOTEBOOK. (You all can do your own dun dun duuuunnns, I'm tired of writing them.)  
  
"Oh my god," Skwisgaar skwhispered.  
  
"Is that . . . ? Is it . . . ?" Toki trembled, eyes bugging out like a Boston Terrier's.  
  
"Thiszh is highly convenient," Murderface noted.   
  
"Who de fucks care?" Toki cried. "Go get it!"  
  
Skwisgaar darted forward and snatched the notebook from the table before breaking into a run. BAM through the doors. Murderface followed in hot pursuit and left a cursing, pissed off Toki limping after them like Long John Silver.   
  
If Long John Silver had two peg legs.


	5. A Funeral Barge Named Desire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Toki contemplates Nathan's imminent "death" after uncovering a secret in his stolen notebook, the Manager makes a brief cameo, and Skwisgaar proves that he isn't quite as dumb as we all ~~know~~ think he is.
> 
> Also: at the time I wrote this chapter, Ofdensen's name had not yet been revealed. #sadlaugh #notmyfault

By the time Toki finally caught up, Murderface and Skwisgaar were huddled out back behind the barbecue pit and riffling through Nathan's lyric notebook with all the glee of two young brats who had just stolen their big sister's diary. Toki, panting like an asthmatic after a 50 yard sprint, approached from behind and would have dearly liked to break his remaining crutch over both their heads, but . . . it was his only remaining crutch.  
  
Ah, what the hell. You only live once.  
  
It didn't take much to splinter the crutch, seeing as how it wasn't made of big hard stiff woods, so a blow to the skull really wasn't all that bad. Skwisgaar and Murderface let out surprised squawks when they got brained out of the blue, but they were way too excited to let a little thing like a head injury harsh their glee.  
  
"Stops screwing arounds and gets down here before someone seesk you," said Skwisgaar irritably, grabbing Toki by one of his belt loops and yanking him into their Super Top Secret Huddle Conference.  
  
"Hey, maybe if we keep thish thing Nathan'll forget the lyricsh to that shitty shong," Murderface said.  
  
"Are you a joke?" Toki cried. "Remembering lyric are his job—he won't forgets!"  
  
"Toki's is right. Besides, Nathan is goings to knows-tiss dat it's missing. We can'ts keeps it forevers."  
  
"Sho whaddo we do?"  
  
Skwisgaar frowned and flipped through the pages. "We find somethings dat we can use. Den we copies it, returns dis notes-book, and den we starts to coming ups with some musics."  
  
"On our own?" Toki asked, wide-eyed and horrified by the thought of doing anything without 100% band approval.  
  
"Yes. Alls by ourselfs."  
  
"But can't we get somebodies to helps us with de—"  
  
"We can'ts have a lots of peoples involve in dis, Toki. We haves to keep it a secret."  
  
"Yeah, and we're running out of plaches to hide bodiezsh. The lessh people, the better."  
  
"So find a song already," Toki said. "And hurry fast. You both stinks like throw up and is making me sick."  
  
"At leasht I don't shmell like a half-acre of burning hair."  
  
Skwisgaar suddenly turned a page and winced in disdain. "Oh fuck. Talks about smell, guys. Dis page here stinks like a chemical's factories."  
  
"Is de marker," Toki observed, staring down at the bold, bleeding black letters. "Whoo-ee! He musta got real high from writings this."  
  
"Lemme shee it," Murderface commanded, taking the notebook from a watery-eyed Skwisgaar.

 _**There's a monster living in my flesh** _  
_**a feast parasite, digest** _  
_**eats me alive from the inside out** _  
_**i need a knife to carve the monster out** _

_**the Monster crawled into my skin** _  
_**like maggots burrow deep within** _  
_**can not kill it can not fight** _  
_**the monster makes me dream tonite** _

_**In my dream you were there** _  
_**causing chaos everywhere** _  
_**flames rolling off your tongue** _  
_**as you crushed the bones of the Forgotten Ones** _

_**rein supreme but bow to me,**_  
_**crowned in blood my undead king**_  
_**the monster poisoning my blood is you**_  
_**it's name is Love**_  
  
"Holy shits," Skwisgaar broke the silence. "Dis is . . . metal. I guess he's really is dying, just reads dat. Parasites, maggots, beings eaten alifes."  
  
"Izshin't it kinda ironic? The shong that  _literally_  shtinksh doeshn't shtink half ash bad ash that  _other_  peesha schit."  
  
Toki stared down in silence at the Sharpie scrawls, and felt something stir inside his chest. It wasn't a ribcage-bursting alien either. It was something warm and sad and emotional, as if he could feel what Nathan had felt when he wrote these words. There was a strange sense of honesty behind them, like they'd come from some tortured corner of his bleeding, blackened heavy-metal heart. Toki suddenly felt as if they were looking at something very personal and private of Nathan's (like his lucky pair of underwear), and that things would have been better off if they had never seen it in the first place (like his lucky pair of underwear).  
  
"We should returns this, guys," he said softly. "It was wrong of us to steals it."  
  
"We didn't shteal it, we borrowed it."  
  
"But we takes it without us asking him first."  
  
"Don'ts be such a goldie-toe-shoes. It's not likes he's is going to be missings it for de next five minutes," Skwisgaar muttered. "Come on, we needs to goes writes dis down and gets it back."  
  
"I can't walk," Toki mumbled. "I broke my crotch."  
  
"Ah don't worry," Murderface said as he and Skwisgaar began to walk back to the house. "We'll shend shomebody out to get ya."

Toki hadn't really taken the time to look at the stars lately. At least not while sober. He had forgotten how pretty they were, especially in the utter pitch fucking darkness, like he was in now. But it was cool. No problem. He passed the time lying on his back and peacefully looking up at the sky while thinking homicidal thoughts about his good-for-nothing bandmates who'd left him out here, and making up his own constellations since he could never remember any of the real ones. So far he had the Speckled Blob, the Twelve-Sided Square, the Three Stars in a Row, and a couple of long-handled pots.  
  
Then he started to think about Nathan. Poor dying Nathan, dying a slow horrible death due to a dysfunctional digestive system. It was so unfair. Nobody should shit themselves into an early grave—it was humiliating and totally not metal. Unless he shit his major organs out in alphabetical order, starting with his heart. That might be metal.   
  
But Toki didn't want Nathan to die, metal death or no metal death. If Nathan died then who would sing? You couldn't replace a guy like Nathan without changing the entire band. Like when what's-his-face from that other band died, and they never put out any albums ever again. It was the end. Axed. Over. Done with. The truth was, Toki had no idea what he would do without Dethklok. His whole life revolved around them like the chamber of a Gatling gun, and as long as the ammo kept coming he had no worries about tomorrow.  
  
But now he was starting to realize just how quickly this wonderful life of his could be taken away. Nathan was dying, and it would only be a matter of time before they'd all be standing around a great big goddamn funeral pyre and watching his blacker-than-the-blackest-black-times-infinity ashes float off into the wind . . .  
  
Toki let out a choked whimper before his voice cracked and he started to sob—a clear indication that he should probably consider getting his Zoloft prescription refilled. As he lay there out on the lawn behind the barbecue pit all by himself, the stars looked down from their great height, so cold and far away, and winked their glitter-dust eyes at him in silence.  
  
A few moments later orange light suddenly cast its glow upon him and the sound of approaching footsteps reached Toki's ears. He swallowed down the lump in his throat and wiped his eyes as four concerned and vaguely familiar faces appeared above him.  
  
"Toki? Is you alifes?" Skwisgaar asked hesitantly, holding a torch in one hand.   
  
"Yeah."  
  
"The wolves didn't getcha, did they?" said Pickles.  
  
"No."  
  
"Shawrry we forgot about you but . . . we fffforgot to remember you were out here."  
  
"No problems. Is cool."  
  
Pause.  
  
"Toki . . . have you been cryin?" Pickles asked, squatting down beside him and cracking open a can of beer concernedly.  
  
"No."  
  
Slurrp. "Why's yer face wet then?"  
  
"I . . . felled asleeps and my eyes drool."  
  
"Oh. Cuz ya look like you've been cryin. Yer face's all red n' puffy too."  
  
"I'm not been crying. I has . . . an allergy attack."  
  
"Ya sure? Cuz, I mean . . . that's okay if yeh were cryin. Tweedle-Dildo an' Tweedle-Dumbass here did a real shitty thing an' I jest—"  
  
"Is okay, I tells you—"  
  
"—cuz if ya want us t' kick their asses we can do it no prob."  
  
Nathan, who had been standing back in the shadows like a musclebound vampire, finally spoke up. "Can we just get him inside before the fuckin yard wolves find us?"  
  
"Yeah, I'm gettin' kinda nervoush. Don't wanna pressh our luck."  
  
"Fine with me," said Pickles curtly, standing up. "Go on, Nate. Pick 'im up an' let's go."  
  
Nathan glared at him. "Hell no."  
  
"Nate'n."  
  
"Call the damn yard maintenance or something."  
  
"A'right. If ya insist. I guess it  _would_  be kinda hard t' lift a little runt like Toki with those big weak useless arms 'a yours . . ."  
  
"Pickles, I am gonna-"  
  
"Is okay, Nathan," Toki interrupted softly, stopping their bickering dead in its tracks. They both gazed down at him—if Precious Moments ever went metal, they'd use Toki as a model for every single teardrop-eyed character in the line. "I can waits for . . . somebody's else to come get me."  
  
Nathan looked as if he'd just been stabbed through the heart with a stalactite made of dead kittens (sorry, that was kind of gruesome and abstract—he looked sad is what I'm saying), then he turned to Pickles and gave him an icy, Death-is-Forthcoming-to-Thee sort of stare. Pickles leered smugly in reply.  
  
Nathan handed his torch to Murderface and kneeled down to the pathetic, crippled Norwegian. "C'mon. Get on my back, I'll carry you."  
  
"Is fine, I can wait."  
  
"I insist. Get on."  
  
"But you just says—"  
  
"GET THE FUCK ON ME NOW, TOKI."  
  
God in heaven what a poor choice of words. But nobody said anything about it, especially not Toki, who scrambled up at the command and latched himself onto Nathan's back like a baby possum. The big man stood up with a grunt and hooked his arms beneath Toki's cast-encased legs, and fell in step behind the others as they all trekked back to the house.  
  
It was hard at first (literally  _and_  figuratively) getting used to being so close to one another after weeks of barely being in the same vicinity together, but soon those uncomfortable feelings faded away into something that just felt sort of . . . natural. Sweet and caring. Like family. Not like Toki's family, shit no, or Nathan's for that matter, but maybe something between the Osbournes and the Mansons. A nice comfortable dysfunctional medium.  
  
Toki wrapped his arms around Nathan's neck and slumped sleepily, resting his chin on the other man's broad shoulder. Ahead of them the other three members of the band talked amongst themselves about doing something with the hedges in the side yard, sculpting a maze out of them or something, like that one from  _The Shining_ , except releasing a couple of the yard wolves in it to make it interesting. And planting a lot of huge-ass briers. 'Cause normal hedge mazes were not metal.  
  
Nathan wasn't paying attention to anything except the wakening monster in his pants and the helpless invalid on his back. Helpless . . . couldn't run away . . . couldn't fight back. Ow. Ow. Stop thinking that or else your balls are gonna split.  _Fuck_  this was torture. Ow. Not much farther now. Just a few more yards. Nathan began to think of a plan for when they got inside, something along the lines of hurling Toki onto the nearest piece of furniture and running in the opposite direction. It sure as hell would beat hurling Toki onto the nearest piece of furniture and then mounting him like a roaring, horny beast. Which was what Nathan really felt like doing. No. No. No no no no no. Toki don't want none of this. Not an option. He wasn't even drunk. No, he'd just drop him off somewhere and then go find a nice dark place to jack off alone and-  
  
Toki gently squeezed his arms and legs around Nathan and said very quietly, "I miss yous already."  
  
Huh. That was a weird fuckin thing to say, but whatever. Nathan didn't respond. A few seconds later he became aware of something warm and wet on his neck and just assumed it was Toki slobbering snot on him or something.   
  
The possibility of it being tears didn't enter his mind at all.

Toki almost had to be bodily removed from Nathan's back. Apparently he had gotten nice and comfortable up there and didn't want to let go, and it was only after Nathan threatened to douse him with rubbing alcohol and light him on fire like a tick that he was willing to loosen his grip a little. Toki slumped down on the [brand new since the other one was destroyed via "coin toss"] couch and watched Nathan stomp off somewhere. Probably to the B-A-S-T-H-R-O-H-M-N-S-E, BMing his way into the obituaries.   
  
Toki was now severely depressed. His life had turned to shit. He was practically temporarily paraplegic. (Practically.) Nathan was dying. And ignoring him. And trying to ruin the band with a monstrous love song that had driven Toki to theft and plagiarism and would ultimately end his life. The only bright side to all this was that at least he wouldn't have to worry about what to wear to Nathan's funeral, because Toki was going to be the first of the gang to die backstage when the opening show was over. He just knew it.  
  
Skwisgaar, noting Toki's dreary demeanor, heaved a sigh and sat down beside him, draped his arm on the back of the couch and propped his boots up on the coffee table. That was never used for coffee. The booze table then. "Don'ts be such a crybaby," he muttered. "We gots de song writted downs and return de notes-book to its place. He never misseds it for a second."  
  
Toki didn't say anything. Just sat there all slouchy and glum with terrible posture. Skwisgaar was forced to shift gears; he reached over and tugged lightly on a lock of Toki's hair.  
  
"Hey. What's de matters?"

Toki pretended to be interested in the cigarette burns in his shirt. "I can't beliefs he is dying."  
  
Skwisgaar snorted. "Pfft. We's are alls dying, Toki. It's is betters to die young for peoples likes us. We dies early and is remembereds forever dat way. Dis is why we haves to do dis new song. It's is for Nathan's, so dat he don't die a total pussy."  
  
Toki shook his head in denial and looked like he was on the verge of turning on the waterworks again. "I don't needs this shit right now. I wanna gets drunk or high or somethings. Just . . . I don't wanna feel anythings." He sighed and turned to look at Skwisgaar imploringly. "Will you go gets my chair for me?"  
  
Skwisgaar gave him a level glare before sighing in defeat. "Yah, okay." He stood up reluctantly.  
  
"Is on de second floors, I think."  
  
"Okay."  
  
Skwisgaar left and then returned about twenty minutes later riding Toki's personal customized executive-chair-slash-scooter, and parked it near the couch. "Dis thing is . . . pretty cool," he said haltingly, as if ashamed to admit it. "I wants one."  
  
"You can borrow dis one when I gets my cats took off."  
  
"Totally."  
  
"Is still mine, so give it back. I needs to go OD on somethings."  
  
Skwisgaar frowned thoughtfully. "I better comes wis you, for de hospital's trip."  
  
"Okay. I needs a desecrated driver anyway."

The conference room was as silent as outer space. Every now and again papers would rustle, but that was it. Dethklok sat in their chairs with the demeanor of men who had just signed their lives over to the circus—not one of those cool Amsterdam circuses that only open after midnight to the 21+ crowd, but the circuses with the clown cars and balloon animals and faggy trapeze men in ungodly-tight spandex. The mortifying un-metal sort of circus.  
  
"Well boys, this is—certainly an  _unprecedented_  change of pace," said their manager, shuffling through paperwork that included a typed copy of the World's Worst Love Song. "But if you feel the need to, ah,  _continue_  in this direction then I can begin making arrangements for the new tour . . ."  
  
"Fine with us," Nathan grunted.  
  
"You're sure about this."  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Okay then." Pause. "You're absolutely 100% sure you want to go through with this."  
  
"YES."  
  
"Alright. Okay. Just making certain since, ah, people  _do_  have a tendency to change their minds about impulsive ideas . . ."  
  
Pickles rubbed his forehead gingerly, nursing a Bloody Mary to help him get over his hangover from last night. "Dude. Jest . . . sign the friggin' papers n' let us worry about regrettin this six months from now. Kay?"  
  
Manager artfully adjusted his glasses in a way that only highly-paid executive businessmen are educated how to do. "If you all insist."  
  
"Oh yeah," Toki sighed airily from the side. He looked and spoke as if had died from the neck up days ago. "We all insists."  
  
"Very well then." Manager nodded crisply, stood and gathered his paperwork. "I suggest we meet again this time next week—I should have the rough estimates in by then. I'll be in touch." And then he left the band alone in the room to numbly stare at the table like overmedicated mental health patients. Luckily no one heard him mutter "Poor bastards," just outside the door.

It was 3:48 in the morning. They should be sleeping, but they weren't. Three of them anyway. They were in the rehearsal auditorium, working on  _A Monster Named Love_ , which is what they dubbed the stolen song from Nathan's notebook. It wasn't too hard to work without a drummer, and Toki hadn't fucked up a riff in at least two hours; they were making good progress but they still had one major problem on their hands.  
  
Skwisgaar let the lick he was shredding abruptly die—amplifier buzz filled the silence as Toki and Murderface followed suit.  
  
"What'sh wrong  _thish_  time?" Murderface sighed.  
  
"Guys, we are goings to needs a person to sings dis stuff," said Skwisgaar. His eyes were purple-ringed, bloodshot holes. "We can'ts just plays music. We needs to finds out where de lyrics goes."  
  
"Why doesn't  _you_  sing it?" Toki asked.  
  
"Hah," he scoffed. "No. I concentratings on de guitars. I'm not so goods at multiple-taskinks."  
  
Murderface rolled his eyes. "Like doing three girlzsh and a half gallon of Absholut at the shame time izshn't multi-tashking."  
  
"Shut up." Skwisgaar nodded to Toki. "You sings it."  
  
"I can't sings!" Toki exclaimed, almost losing his balance and falling off his stool.  
  
"Fine. Myurderface will does it den."  
  
"Hello? Do we live in the shame world? Have you lishened to me shpeak lately? I don't fuckin think sho, pal."  
  
"It's is you den, Toki."  
  
"Aw man. I don't wants to. I sounds like stupid."  
  
"You  _is_  stupid," Skwisgaar said, then added, "buts you can sings a lots better den us."  
  
"I don't know de lyric."  
  
"Writes dem on your arm or somethings. Does anyone heres has a pen?"  
  
"I've gotta pocket knife," Murderface said brightly. "That'll work."  
  
But Toki didn't want to carve his arm up just for the sake of one rehearsal, so what he did was tape a hand-written copy of the song on his mic stand and he was good to go. Unfortunately he still wasn't very skilled at reading English (especially when written by somebody with godawful handwriting, like Murderface), so he flubbed a lot. Badly. And he sang out of key. Badly. How the guy could be in the least bit musically inclined was just flipping miraculous.  
  
". . .  _cannot kill it, cannot fight_ ," he warbled, squinting at the paper on his mic while the metallic grinding of guitars filled the auditorium with beautiful noise. " _De monster make me dream tonig_ -"  
  
"Stop stop stop stop stop," Skwisgaar directed, and everyone did exactly that.  
  
"What's de hell wrong?" Toki snapped, insomnia-fueled irritability not only catching up to him but mowing him down. "We never gonna gets de song done'd if you keeps on stopping us all de time!"  
  
"De song is fine. It's is de singer dat needs to work. I thinks I knows what's it is to do abouts it. Myurderface, gets your car's key. We needs to goes for a ride."

At a nearby Våfflor Haus, Skwisgaar and Murderface chowed down on some bizarre form of waffles while Toki obediently smoked his way through two packs of cigarettes and drank coffee that was strong enough to induce heart palpitations. The air of the diner itself was already in violation of the World Health Organization's hazardous emissions standards due to the large number of chain-smoking truckers that frequented the place, and right now it was prime pit stop hour. It looked like a London wharf after midnight in there. It was enough to make you want to move to downtown Los Angeles to get some fresh air.  
  
Toki coughed violently after grinding his cigarette butt into the overflowing ashtray. His eyes were watering and his skin was already beginning to yellow. "I think I smokes enough for now," he said in a rough, raspy voice.  
  
"N'ah enouff," Skwisgaar replied with his mouth full. "Fmokesf fum more."  
  
Toki was honestly too fucking tired to care, so he opened up his third pack and set to work.   
  
The trio left Våfflor Haus reeking to all six corners of Hell and then went out to an all-night bar where they practically poured gin down Toki's throat until he threw up coffee and alcohol all over the pub floor. When he couldn't swallow any more they made him gargle shots of Flaming Armadillo, during which he nearly caught himself on fire. Three times.   
  
After they got kicked out of the bar for repeatedly setting off the fire alarm, they rode around town in Murderface's drop-top and had Toki scream at the top of his lungs until his throat began to bleed. Only then was he allowed to lie down in the back seat and sleep.  
  
When they returned to Mordhaus around 5:51 a.m. and limped Toki into the auditorium, Skwisgaar slapped him lightly on each cheek to get his attention before handing him a live mic and a lyric sheet. Skwisgaar and Murderface strapped on their guitars, and then Skwisgaar said, "Sing."  
  
Hallucinating, drunk and all kinds of fucked-up-exhausted, Toki opened his mouth and the hammering of guitars joined in: " _There's a monster living . . . in my flesh_ ," he rasped in an unholy throaty voice that was hardly his own—metal and deep and sexy enough to be banned in at least 12 countries. " _A feasting parasite, digesssst . . . Eats me alive from de inside out . . . I need a knife to carve . . . de monster . . . out_."  
  
Skwisgaar stopped playing, tossed his pick into the air like a graduation cap, and took Toki's face in his hands (smooshing his cheeks together in a very unflattering yet endearing way). " _Dat_ ," he said with breathless excitement, "is de voice of a VIKING GOD."   
  
And then he planted his mouth right on Toki's, kissing him with all the furious passion of Michael Corleone smacking one to Fredo. When he finally let go, Toki had maxed out the last reserves of his energy and was already asleep before he tumbled to the floor. It was probably for the better, otherwise he would have been sent into a panicked fit about catching VD from the mouth that has undoubtedly seen more pussy than a vet's office. But looking on the bright side, at least they had a singer. Now it was only a matter of summoning the balls to defy a dying, dangerous man who had nothing to lose and everything to gain by committing murder.  
  
No doubt about it—this was going to be the tour that would change everything Dethklok had ever known about itself.


	6. Heeeeey I Think I Love You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nathan has another run-away-screaming moment, Toki's return to the hospital prompts him to do some serious thinking, and a scene of pure unadulterated angst emerges for the first time... followed by Skwisgaar's insomnia-induced holiday-themed hallucinations. Just so the chapter wouldn't end on an angsty note.

Nathan sat alone in the recording studio, listening and re-listening to the album on the digital playback. But not really. He had  _started out_ listening, sure, but then he got carried away with his own thoughts (and they must have been pretty goddamn ripped because we all know Nathan's not a big thinker) and it wasn't long before he was pressing a steady pattern of buttons and slowly getting an awesomely brutal headache. He'd probably done more actual thinking in these past five months than he had in his whole life, and not without any side effects: he was even more irritable and unapproachable than ever, he hadn't got a decent night's sleep in weeks, all the fun had been taken out of getting drunk/high/someone killed . . . his life in general . . . and he was still popping wood at the mention of Toki Wartooth.   
  
And yet, either by coincidence or cruel irony (who gives a damn, they're both sorta the same thing), Nathan hadn't been able to get turned on by any other thing.  _Girls Gone Whory_. The Sin-a-Max TV Network. Even his prized collection of raw vintage 1970s porno mags were losing their power. He thought he just needed new material but that stack of Millennium Masochist he borrowed from Murderface wasn't helping either.   
  
The few attempts to assert his heterosexuality (which was pretty much in shambles) with a couple random groupies had ended with cringe-inducing embarrassment. He hadn't been laid in almost two months. This was fucking horrifying. He hadn't been this bad off in the meat department ever since that time he got high on nitrous oxide and dared Murderface to punch him in the nuts. He couldn't walk right for weeks.  
  
But Pickles—thank  _fuck_  for Pickles—Pickles kept Nathan together. Kept him cool and sane and overdosed and tied to the belief that everything would be fine-fine-fine once they kicked off their opening tour for  _Dungeons & Ratguts_. That was one month from today. One more month. Four weeks. Twenty-eight days and change. But it was okay. It was cool. Just a little bit longer and then no more of this crap. Everything would be back to normal. Toki would never find out. Nathan would never have to humiliate himself by confessing his actions to the rest of the band. They could all just move the hell on and never look back. Not-So-Little Nathan would be cured and back in business, the album would sell off the shelves and life would be FUCKING PEACHY.  
  
Just then Nathan's lumbering thought processes were interrupted by what sounded like an approaching scooter being driven by a cackling madman. He turned his attention to the open doorway and saw Toki, hooting gleefully in his motor-propelled executive chair, buzz past. A few moments later Skwisgaar trudged by, followed by Murderface and then Pickles, who stopped in the threshold.  
  
"What's going on?" Nathan muttered. "You havin a funeral procession?"  
  
"Maybe." Pickles finished off his beer and tossed the bottle somewhere. There was a small shatter as it broke on some point beyond the frame of the readers' vision bubbles. "We're takin Toki to the hospital."  
  
Nathan tried not to cringe at the mention of The Name. "Really. Is he sick?"  
  
"Yeah, pretty bad. Jest yesterday Skwiss noticed a tumor growin on the dude's backbone an' it's probably gonna paralyze him fer the resta his life. Might be spinal lymphoma r' somethin carcinogenic n' terminal. The cancer's probably already spread t' his other organs so we're takin 'im in t' see what kinda euthanasia plans they got."  
  
Pickles paused for a moment, taking in Nathan's speechless, blood-drained face. White as corpse-flesh. Eyes like black holes. Jaw slackened. It was too much. Pickles started to chuckle.  
  
Nathan was stunned for a second, then pissed as hell. "You FUCKHEAD."  
  
Pickles lol'd so hard he couldn't stand up straight. "My GAD yer so gullible it's sick! Ya really do love 'im, don'tcha?"  
  
"I could fuckin  _kill_  you for that."  
  
"Ya shoulda seen the look on yer face! Can't believe ya actually fell for it. Christ, Nate, let's get the hell outta here before ya go shack-wacky; Toki's gettin his casts taken off n' today's chicken finger day at the hospital cafeteria."  
  
"I can't believe you'd even fuckin joke about . . . wait, really?"  
  
"Yeah, why the hell else ya think we're all taggin along? Fer the scenery?"  
  
Nathan scowled thoughtfully. He really didn't want to go someplace that put him in unnecessary contact with Toki, but the hospital cafeteria  _did_ have the best goddamn chicken fingers on the face of the planet. Perfectly seasoned and hot and tender and juicy on the inside . . . like Toki . . . NO! No no no. Bad. BAD. Chicken fingers, Nathan. Chicken meat. Chickens. Chickens and cocks. NO! Cock meat. NOOOO! Hot tender juicy cock—  
  
" **NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!** "   
  
Pickles leapt out of the way as Nathan jumped from his chair, knocked it over backward, and plowed through the doorway. He was off and sprinting again, presumably to a dark, happy place where he could curl up in a fetal position for a few hours. At least all this running was doing him good. He looked like he might have lost a couple pounds.  
  
Pickles picked himself off the floor and went out into the hall, where he saw Nathan round a corner at full speed, hit the wall, ricochet off, and thunder away. He cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, "IF YA DIDN'T WANNA GO ALL YA HAD TA DO WAS SAY SOOOOO!"

Dr Romstein was the chief bone expert guy—skeletonologist or something—at Saint En's, and he was the one who got to cut the blue camo casts off Toki's shins with a hand-held circular saw that Murderface immediately fell in love with. Toki was so happy to be freed from those damn things that Pickles and Skwisgaar had to restrain him long enough for Romstein to take follow-up X-rays. The pictures revealed that all the bones had knit just right and Toki was A-OK. Despite everything he'd done that the doctors told him  _not_  to do.  
  
"Howeffer," droned Romstein as his patient bounced excitedly on the examining table, "I muss vorn you not to go krazy wis de rhunnink arhound, Herr Toki. Die bones ist still  _nicht_ -shtrong, und puttink dem unter shtrain vould be _sehr_ -y unwise—"  
  
Romstein hadn't even punctuated his sentence before Herr Toki exploded off the table and was running like a motherfucker out of the room. Out of the ward. Hooting and cheering the whole way.  
  
The doctor turned his head to glare dully at the three remaining band members, and handed Toki's left-behind pair of shorts to Skwisgaar. "Goot luck. I vill see you oll again een vunn hour."   
  
Toki hadn't gotten all that far before the others caught up to him; he was lying on the linoleum—in nothing save t-shirt and underwear—just past the CAUTION: WET FLOOR sign outside the maternity ward. (Why did they even  _have_  one of those in this place? It's not like  _they_  ever used it.)  _They_  all sighed heavily in unison and muttered under their breaths about something-or-other related to the adorable little dumbass.  
  
Skwisgaar knelt down and tossed the shorts in said dumbass's lap. "Dids yous break your fucking legs again, Mister Genius?"  
  
Toki, who looked wide awake and perfectly alright, gave a little shrug. "Nah, I just catch my breath right now. I needs to run more, I all out of shapes."  
  
"The doc said not to," Pickles snapped. "Ya wanna be wearin leg casts again fer the next gad-knows-how-many months?"  
  
"No."  
  
"Well then." And that was all he said.  
  
"Still," Toki complained, sitting up and pulling his shorts on, "they shoulda warn peoples about wet floor likes this one."  
  
"They DO, shtupid," Murderface kicked the CAUTION sign around so that Toki could see it.  
  
"Oh. I can't reads that when I run fast."  
  
"Dat's why dey puts on de pictures of a guy's falling down, so dat dumbs  _retard_ —" Skwisgaar jabbed his finger onto Toki's forehead. "—like yous will understands it. Come on, gets off de floor." He extended his hand and helped the Second Best to his feet again. "Oh yah, and deez is yours."   
  
A hideous green pair of those cloth/paper hospital shoe covers found their way into Toki's hands. He wrinkled his nose at them. "What's de hell are this?"  
  
"Ruby slippers," Pickles muttered as he walked past, blowing cigarette smoke at a nearby NO SMOKING sign. "The doc wanted ya t' have 'em, said they're magic. They make ya dance like Fred Astaire."  
  
"Really?"  
  
"Sure, why not."  
  
"Who's Fred of Stares?"  
  
"A dead guy."  
  
In quiet awe: "Wowww. And wearing these will makes me to dance likes a dead guy too?"  
  
"I dunno, Toki, jest put the fuckin things on so we can get outta here."  
  
So Toki put the fuckin things on and honestly believed that they made him dance like a dead guy. The others danced him down to the hospital cafeteria where they waited in the line that didn't exist to get the best goddamn chicken fingers on the planet, then they all sat around a small table and dug in.  
  
"Mm," Pickles murmured, "I fergot how good solid food is."  
  
Toki stopped committing poultrycide with his mouth long enough to comment, "I wish Nate'ns was here now. He'da like de fry chickens. Is his favorite foods."  
  
"Uh . . . he wanted t' come but . . . eh, he's busy."  
  
"Bizzshy  _dying_ ," Murderface muttered under his breath, moodily stabbing into a piece of chicken with his Ka-Bar.  
  
Pickles's brow wrinkled. "What?"  
  
"Nothings," Skwisgaar answered quickly. "We's just wish dat . . . never minds."  
  
"No really. Ya wish what?"

Skwisgaar responded by shoving three chicken fingers into his mouth and saying something. And just in case Pickles might be gifted at understanding Full-Mouthenese, he said that something in Swedish. It didn't even sound remotely human, let alone intelligible.  
  
"Huh?"  
  
Toki stifled a squeal of surprise as he was elbowed in the ribs. "Don't  _does_  that, Skwisgaar! You coulda makes me choke! . . . Oh. I means . . . gee. I sure hopes Nathan's is not working too much. He might needs to take a vacations and . . . enjoy lifes while he still . . ." Toki's bottom lip quivered and he slumped in his chair, his appetite vanished faster than Vanilla Ice's career.  
  
Pickles arched a studded red eyebrow at this curious behavior and lit another cigarette. "Why the long face all the sudden?"  
  
"I dunno." Toki shrugged, head bowed and his brown hair curtaining his eyes. "I thinks I gots it from my ffff . . . ff-f-father's side—"  
  
"Nah nah, jeez, not literally, c'mon, I mean . . . why're ya so sad?"  
  
But Toki didn't reply, either lulled into a catatonic state at the mention of his parents or too emotionally fatigued to force air into his voice box. Pickles narrowed his eyes suspiciously and looked over at Skwisgaar and Murderface, who noticed that Pickles had narrowed his eyes suspiciously at them; they both started to perspire chicken-flavored sweat.  
  
"You guys've been actin kinda weird lately," he drawled. "If I didn't know any better I'd say ya know somethin that I don't."  
  
"Nope!" Murderface pasted on a fake smile that was truly terrifying to look at. "We don't know schit!"  
  
"Never dids, never wills!" Skwisgaar agreed, pulling his face into a taut imitation of a smile and managing to do a scary-accurate impression of Jack Nicholson's Joker after Botox injections.   
  
Pickles had to look the other way. It hurt too much. "Uh. Okaaaay."  
  
Toki pushed his chair back and stood up. "I'm through," he mumbled. He trudged out of the cafeteria, the magic of his little green hospital booties utterly gone. 

The hallway to Nathan's bedroom was dark and quiet, unusual for this hour. Toki crept silently through like a Norwegian ninja, his pale eyes fixed on the dim splash of yellow-orange light escaping from beneath the bedroom door. He stopped in front of it and studied it for a while. This was Nathan's door. It belonged to Nathan. Soon the room beyond it would be dark and cold and empty, and the door would be locked, never to open again. Everything inside the room would stay the same. Nothing would move ever again. All the things that Nathan owned would sit unused, collecting dust and cobwebs and time. That's what it's going to be like soon. All too soon.  
  
Toki raised his hand as if to knock before thinking better of it; instead he laid his open palm upon the wood and thought of the million excuses why he shouldn't bother Nathan. He was probably tired. He  _was_  dying after all. Dying people need rest, don't they? It didn't make very much sense. You'd think dying people who knew they were dying would never sleep again. Don't waste a moment 'cause it might be your last. And besides, Toki didn't want to piss him off. Wasn't it already enough that his final memory was going to be of Nathan's hands around his throat, throttling him to death? What a way to go. Toki hoped they wouldn't press charges, though it'd be kind of useless to put Nathan on death row for murder when he was already dying. He'd probably go tits-up before the verdict was in.  
  
Toki didn't want to die. Toki didn't want Nathan to die. Toki didn't want to make Nathan mad. Toki didn't want to sing that fucking love song, either fucking version of it. This whole thing was bull's shit and all he wanted to do right now was spend time with Nathan before he croaked. No tour, no rehearsals, no screaming fans or any of that crap. Just sit somewhere close to him and appreciate the company he had always taken for granted. All he wanted was time. The one thing they didn't have. Life was a real kick in the dick sometimes.  
  
Toki wasn't an angel, not by a long shot, and this emotional sewage wasn't his cuppa tea—he was selfish and immature and impatient and vengeful and impulsive and all sorts of horrible little pieces of dysfunctional personalities. But goddammit, he thought that just  _once_  he would like to care about someone else even though he would never be rewarded for it. He realized he loved Nathan. Nathan was his friend. He didn't want him to die. In lives where they all ate, drank, slept, lived, breathed and fucked death, only when it seemed inevitable that one of them must meet the Reaper did it suddenly become real.   
  
Toki came to the conclusion that there were two kinds of death: the fake death that was all cool and brutal and fun and didn't really mean shit in the long run, the kind of death that everyone wrote songs about and got famous for, and then there was  _real_  death. Permanent death. Death that ripped a part of your fucking heart out and ate it. The kind of death that ended things when they weren't supposed to end and stole your best friends away from you. Real death was horrible. There would never be anything cool about it.  
  
Toki rested his forehead against the door. His face twisted into a look of extreme pain as he fought to keep the screaming, wailing emo agony at bay, but he wasn't mentally mature enough to know how to restrain himself yet; he started to cry, very quietly so that the room's occupant would never ever know.   
  
_Don't steals him from me_ , he thought, making himself cry even harder, which was what he wanted. He needed to get this shit out of him.  _I wants him here. Lets him suffer. As longs as he's around we'll always be togethers. De band will be togethers. Stay, Nate'ns. We'll falls apart if you don't, and I'll hates you forever if you leaves us._  
  
God this hurt so bad. But at the same time letting it out felt good. He sniffed wetly, achieving a horrendous  _schlerrrrrk_  sound. He needed a Kleenex bad. His whole head felt hot and swollen and the back of his eyes ached and his lips felt all puffy and inflamed. He felt ugly as hell.  
  
_You bastard. Why you gots to make me cry like this . . ._  
  
Toki wiped his eyes and was suddenly startled by a voice to his right: "Toki?"  
  
He froze, turning his head to see Nathan standing in the hall a few feet away, looking at him expressionlessly. He was wearing pajamas—flannel pants and a black t-shirt that stated bluntly _FUCK OFF._ —and he carried a rolled-up magazine in his hand. Toki tried not to react hysterically at being seen in such a state of repulsive girly-ness, but it was very hard to do.  
  
"N-Nathan!" he hiccupped. "But-! If yours out here, then who's in  _there_?" He pointed to the bedroom door.  
  
"Uh, nobody? I was in the bathroom."  
  
Right. How could Toki forget. Probably just flushed his pancreas down the toilet. How long could a person live without pancreas? Maybe they could live without  _one_ —wait, there were two of them, right? What the hell  _were_  pancreas anyway? Fuck. It didn't matter. The important thing was Nathan probably needed it/them and now it's/they're gone. No way could the doctors keep replacing organs at this rate. They'd need to start sacrificing people by the dozens and keep a walk-in freezer fully stocked with bowels and bladders. Game over, man. Ain't gonna happen.  
  
These thoughts weren't helping Toki at all but somehow he managed to stifle his sobs despite the snot and tears and drool leaking out of every orifice in his flushed face. "Oh," he choked. "Okay. Ha."  
  
"Toki . . . ?" Nathan said with great difficulty. "Are . . . why you standing outside my door and crying?"  
  
"Cause I feels like it!" he exploded, grateful for a chance to get angry. "What are you, de police? Is you gonna to arrests me for it?"  
  
"I was just wondering . . . I mean. Since you're crying and—"  
  
"So I'm crying! BIG DEALS! Why de fuck's everybody worry about why I cries or not? Do I needs a fucking permits or somethings!?" He was clearly losing it at this point.  
  
Nathan lifted his hand peacefully. "Alright alright, calm down. I just . . . I didn't mean to . . ."  
  
Toki's bloodshot eyes met Nathan's and stayed there. Nathan saw grief and desperation burning red hot in those shades of cold blue, and it was unbearable. Like clubbing baby harp seals unbearable. Why was he still standing here? Why hadn't he left yet? He must want something.  
  
"Toki," Nathan said very quietly. "What do you want?"  
  
The cracking, hoarse reply was as hollow as an empty coffin: "Nothings  _you_  can gives me."  
  
The words totaled Nathan's heart before his brain even heard the squealing tires. By then all he could do was watch in stunned silence as Toki bowed his head and sucked in a sob of air, folding his arm tight across his waist and shadowing his eyes from view with his hand. Standing just out of reach, crying, begging for something that Nathan couldn't understand. He should leave. Why wasn't he leaving? Did he actually  _want_. . . ?  
  
Nathan took a step forward and raised his hand to touch him. An inch from Toki's brown hair, he stopped. No. Don't do it. Loss of control. It'll go too far. You don't need this. Nathan almost didn't care. He could admit to that now. He could admit to wanting it for what it was, and that was bad. This wasn't right. Toki wanted something that Nathan didn't have, and that hurt more than a stab wound in the gut. He felt betrayed.  
  
If only. The hand traced the space around Toki's oblivious form, a sad imitation of touch.   
  
_I think I love you more now than all this time I've been pretending I don't._    
  
"Go to bed, Toki. I'll see you tomorrow." He shuffled his way past the dejected figure and closed the bedroom door behind him. On the other side Nathan rubbed his wet eyes and snorted hard to clear his sinuses.  
  
Fucking Toki Wartooth. Thanks for making a grown man cry.

Another super secret midnight rehearsal. The three guitarists were now past the point of "overworked" and were actually looking forward to the nice long relaxation that untimely and gruesome death would provide. Between tying up loose ends with their manager and practicing two versions of the show, the string section of Dethklok was hallucinating on a regular basis and suffering from delirium. And Pickles had been watching them like a priest at a playground. For a lifelong alcoholic he sure could be observant sometimes. They'd all had to take extra precautions to avoid attracting his attention; no doubt he'd ruin everything by ratting to Nathan about their plans for a live, on-stage mutiny. And the only good thing about  _that_  would be earlier demises.  
  
They ran through the original love song one more time, practicing the transition into the new version. It was essentially a really good song with a really bad intro. Like starting as Billy Joel and ending as Glen Danzig. Hopefully the fans would forgive them. It was kind of entertaining really, faking them out like that. Fucking with people's minds was fun.  
  
"Okay, I think we got it," Murderface declared, taking off his guitar before they'd even finished playing the song. "I'm gonna be schitting ghostsh if I don't get shum shleep shoon."   
  
The others gratefully followed suit; even Skwisgaar—who usually had his axe hanging off his shoulder 46% of the time, even during dinner and sleep—untangled himself from his strap and propped his X-plorer against an amp. Then he crouched down beside it and let his head drop. "God I so fuckings tireds," he mumbled. "I woulds gives up de hottest ladies on de world to gets an hour's sleeps.  _Så trött_  . . . I thinking. I just sleeps here." He stretched out on the floor and folded his arms beneath his head. " _G'natt,_ fuckers."  
  
" _Don't starts it,_ " Toki wheezed. He'd had his vocal cords keel-hauled again earlier that night in an effort to build up his singing stamina. " _You going to makes us all . . . tire . . ._ " He interrupted himself by yawning.   
  
"You shuns of bitsches," Murderface groaned, staggering across the stage to slump down beside Skwisgaar. "I . . ." He was snoring before he could finish his sentence. He'd fallen asleep sitting against the amp.  
  
Skwisgaar raised a bruised looking eyelid. It took every ounce of energy for him to lift his arm and gesture for Toki to come over. Toki lifted off his guitar, let it drop to the floor, and took a few steps before he stumbled and crash-landed onto Skwisgaar's legs.   
  
" _How many day left?_ " he croaked against a sharp kneecap.  
  
"Fives," answered Skwisgaar, clapping his hand on top of Toki's head and rubbing absentmindedly. "Are yous scareds?"  
  
" _No. I'm Toki._ " Pause. " _But de snow scare me._ "  
  
"What snow?"  
  
" _De snow falling . . . froms de ceiling now._ " He closed his eyes. " _Is all . . . fairies. They comes to get me. Bad . . . snow._ " And then he went out like a light.  
  
Skwisgaar was the last to let go. By then the world looked like a winter wonderland—Murderface was the Abominable Snowman, Toki was Walt Disney, and he himself had hair made of double-helix sugar crystals. And somewhere some laughing bastard was calling him a ho.


	7. A Monster Named Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The long awaited live-concert guitar mutiny takes place. Hair gets pulled. Feelings get hurt. Drywall gets demolished. Grown men cry. And Pickles thinks about renaming the band to "Fagklok". Jacuzzi scenes, Scandinavian homoeroticism, all of this and more can be yours in the second-to-last installment of _Dethlove_. Enjoy if you can!

A voice slowly faded in: ". . . I mean, Gadda mighty. What the hell happened here?" Jarble jarble jumble noise. ". . . alive n' jest wasted r' somethin? Ey. Murderface. Wake up n' . . ."  
  
Skwisgaar gradually began to notice upon being roused from his slumber that his body was a solid mass of  _pain_. All italic letters  _pain_. Not quite bold  **pain**  though, just italic. Certainly nowhere near capital letters PAIN yet. He tried to roll over to alleviate some of the pressure on his back but he discovered all too soon that Toki had apparently gotten cold during the night and crawled between his legs for warmth. The dozing Norwegian had his upper body wedged in there tight and was using Skwisgaar's crotch for a pillow. And with Skwisgaar being . . . well,  _himself_. . . he suffered from a chronic case of morning wood ever since he'd hit puberty. So now the pain had a name and address, and the whole neighborhood was letting him know.  
  
"Gyah, get offs me, Toki! You squish my thing!"  
  
" _Uh?_ " came the half-conscious reply.  
  
"Goes on, up! Up up offs! I can'ts feels my leg. Dey both died!"  
  
" _M' in-a-sense I swears . . ._ "  
  
"Skwisgaar!" Pickles' voice raked across Skwisgaar's eardrums like a pick-axe on a chalkboard, and the drummer was soon standing over him and looking down suspiciously. "Skwisgaar."  
  
"What."  
  
" _What_? You tell me  _what_. Like what n' the hell yer all doin' passed out on the floor. Dude, what're ya even doin' in here? Nobody knew where the fuck ya were all mornin."  
  
"Rehearsals," Skwisgaar muttered, dragging himself out from underneath Toki and patting his pockets in search of a smoke.  
  
"Rehearsal? The hell ya need ta rehearse for?"  
  
"Nothings, we just likes to." Skwisgaar tapped out a cigarette and then began to search Toki's pockets for a light.  
  
Pickles didn't buy it. He scowled. "A'right, what the hell're you guys hidin? Yer up t' somethin, ain'tcha?"  
  
Ticklish Toki giggled in his sleep as Skwisgaar wrestled a Zippo out of his left-front pocket. He took his sweet ass time to light his cig and answer—he finally sighed out a smoky, "So what's if we is, ah? You is not de mudder of us. Minds your own bee's nest, Pickle."  
  
Ooooh. "M' serry, what was that?"  
  
Skwisgaar crawled to his feet in order to gain the advantage of height. "You heards me. What's we does are nots any business of yours."  
  
"Uh, ya know what?  _Yer_  in the band. N'  _I'm_  in the band. Yeah. So it fuckin well  _is_  my business."  
  
"You just  _loves_  stickings your nose in other's people personal—"  
  
"Dude. It's not personal—"  
  
"Pffft. Yah, dat's a—"  
  
"We gotta  _concert_  in less than a week n' all 'a ya look like ya haven't slept in a fuckin  _year_!"   
  
"We's are FINE—"  
  
"No yer not! Yer completely cracked! Fried! I mean dude, what the hell gives!?"  
  
"FUCKS OFF, PICKLE!"  
  
" _MAKE_  ME, DOUCHEBA—"  
  
Murderface suddenly sat up, holding a very large hunting knife in his fist as he screamed, "SCHUT UP OR I SHWEAR TO GOD I'LL COME OVER THERE AND CUT'SHER FUCKIN THROATSH OUT!"  
  
" _Yehh, me too,_ " Toki mumbled.  
  
Pickles and Skwisgaar glared at each other silently for a few moments before Skwisgaar decided to back down for the sake of his bandmates. And for his headache. Mainly his headache, because Skwisgaar wasn't that noble. So he collected his guitar and made his way off the stage. And just because he always had to get the last word in, no matter how pwned he had gotten, he muttered to Pickles as he passed, "Dildos."  
  
Pickles flipped him off and then turned his attention to the still-snoozing Toki. Once he was sure Skwisgaar was gone, he kneeled down and shook him gently by the shoulder.  
  
"Wake up, honey, yer gonna be late fer schoooool," he cooed in the sweetest Mom Voice he could manage.  
  
" _I not goes to school today, I sick,_ " Toki slurred without opening his eyes.  
  
"Yer friends're gonna miss you."  
  
" _Mnhhr._ "  
  
"Skwisgaar n' Murderface won't be able t' rehearse without ya."  
  
" _They's fine . . . says we ready . . . sing love's song for Nate'n._ "  
  
Aha. Now he was starting to get somewhere. "Sing a song fer Nate'n?"  
  
" _Yehh. B'fore he dies . . . n' we dies._ " Toki had no idea what he was saying. Or maybe he did. Because his next words were : " _I loves him._ "  
  
Pickles sat back on his haunches and stared down at the sleeping guitarist, wondering how seriously he could take those three little words. He'd have to think on it. Toki and the others were acting like they had some kind of big fucking secret that they weren't going to tell anyone. It was getting annoying and everyone was already gnawing each other's legs off because of this concert. Maybe the little guy was just stressed out and worried about Nathan. Nathan was definitely a guy to worry about.   
  
Of course, the only  _other_  logical answer was that Toki was experiencing mutual feelings for Nathan. Without Nathan knowing. Without anyone knowing. What are the chances of  _that_  kind of shit happening?  
  
Pickles stood up and trudged off, muttering under his breath, "Gad if this keeps up we're gonna hafta change our name t' Fagklok." He shook his head. "Gayer than the gayest gay times infinity."

It was the night before the opening performance, and somehow all the fun had been taken out of the jacuzzi. Not the water or anything, just the fun. It was almost a tradition, soaking and boozing it up in the tub together before the start of every tour. (God that really does sound gay, doesn't it? No wonder all this crap is happening—it was just a matter of time.) So anyway, the whole band sat in the jacuzzi with beers in hand (or in Pickles' case a 30-ounce hurricane glass of some godawful looking tutti fruity concoction) and didn't say a word to each other. It was very uncomfortable, sitting naked in bubbly hot water with nothing in common with the people around you but an awkward silence.   
  
And it was pretty awkward even without the silence: Nathan sat squashed against Murderface to avoid making any contact with Toki, who seemed intent on inching closer to Nathan just to be near him, and Murderface was slowly scooting closer to Pickles since Nathan was getting all up in his personal space, and Skwisgaar's fucking guitar was just a nuisance. It wasn't in anyone's way, it was just annoying. Nobody even knew why he brought that thing in the tub anyway or how it never seemed to get water damage.   
  
"Are . . . you boys alright this evening? You seem awfully quiet," said Manager-whose-name-we-now-know-to-be-Ofdensen-but-I'm-not-going-to-edit-this-whole-fic-just-because-we-know-it-now, sitting on the other side of the room and taking care of business. Whatever it was. He was talking on his cell phone a lot and going through papers. Probably something important that the band never thought about or cared to think about.   
  
"Eh. We're jest . . . y'know," Pickles muttered.  
  
An executive brown eyebrow arched. "No, I  _don't_  know."  
  
"We's is mediastating," Skwisgaar threw out a random excuse.  
  
"You means moderating," Toki corrected with only half of his usual viciousness when it came to correcting Skwisgaar.  
  
"I think he means meditating," Nathan grumbled.  
  
"Pffft. No, dat's not it eithers."  
  
"Who gives a schit anyway?" Murderface spat. " _I_  don't. Nathan,  **shtop it**."  
  
"Stop what?"  
  
"Movin closher to me. Yer shquishing me an' I'm fat an' I need room. Move the fuck over to  _your_  shide. Ya got shumthin against Toki or what?"  
  
"No-"  
  
"Then git offa me."  
  
Pickles' Gay-Panic Alarm went off. "Uh Nate'n, ya don't hafta move it ya don't—"  
  
"Schuttup Picklesh."  
  
"Bite me, Wilma. Nate'n, ya don't hafta—"  
  
"Yeah, is okay Nate'ns," Toki said, moving closer and touching the singer's arm. "There a lot of room he—"  
  
Nathan almost explosion. I mean exploded. "Will everybody just SHUT THE FUCK UP AND  **NOT**  TOUCH ME . . . uh, please. Thank you."  
  
Silence.  
  
Ofdensen said, "I see you're all having some issues with communication. Nervous about the show, are we?"  
  
The mixes of "yes" and "no" confirmed his suspicions.   
  
"Very well. I'm not going to mince words—I think this love song of yours is going to be one of the worst career moves in the history of music, and you should all be scared shitless."  
  
"No no, y'see, we  _have_  ta do it," Pickles insisted.  
  
"No, you don't."  
  
"YES, WE DO," Nathan grunted.   
  
"Fine," Ofdensen conceded, "if you insist on  _willingly_  damaging your image like this, then I suppose there's nothing I can do. But don't come crying to me when you are all sitting around and wondering what happened." He stood from his seat. "You need to talk to each other again. Keeping secrets will destroy you." And with a quick adjustment of glasses, he was gone.

Toki hadn't been this nervous since their first gig, and even then he'd been too drunk to feel nervous at all. He was pretty sober as he sat in the dressing room back stage and fought to keep himself from retching. He had already undergone the routine procedure to acquire his sexy/mangled voice, and throwing up stomach acid would probably hurt worse than masturbating with an S.O.S. pad. Skwisgaar had already spent some time shouting at Ralph and Huey on the porcelain telephone and was now wandering around anxiously, fingering his guitar as an ingrained defense mechanism or obsessively combing his hair. And he was shedding all over the place. They'd gone through two sticky roller sheets already. Murderface sat in the chair in the corner and just stared straight ahead like a soulless doll, stabbing a knife into the cushioned arm until stuffing had begun to puff out like mangled guts. To say he wasn't thrilled would be a gross non-exaggeration.  
  
Toki stared at his reflection in the mirror. It was a pretty neat outfit, he had to admit—chunky black boots and leather pants and a fishnet shirt with a red-eyed rat on the chest—but he didn't feel like wearing it. He didn't want to go out there. He didn't want to sing. He didn't want to die. It was too much. He should just kill himself now and get it over with. Anything would be better than doing what he was about to do.  
  
He faintly registered Skwisgaar pulling up a chair beside him; Skwisgaar turned him around so that they faced each other. He looked sick. Not just the normal barfy-drunk-stoned sick, but like  _deathbed_  sick. Even his corpse makeup couldn't hide that glazed look in his eyes, glazed like a dead body that had died with its eyes open.  
  
"Boy you really looks bad," Toki croaked bluntly.  
  
"I knows." Skwisgaar reached over and picked up a compact of black makeup, positioned Toki's face like an anal retentive hairdresser, and began to apply the stuff to his face. They didn't talk to each other at first, too focused on listening to the dull, growing noise in the background that was the audience they would soon be standing in front of. But then Skwisgaar broke the proverbial ice: "Toki."  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
He dabbed the poof over Toki's eyelids. "Dis coulds be de last preformstance ever dat we does."  
  
"Yeah I knows."  
  
Pause. "I thinks it's pretty cool dats you would dies for . . . de band. So, uh. Whatevers happen out dere, I just wants yous to knows . . . I never really hated you alls dat much. Really I kinds of . . . loveds you a little? Likes friend does." Pause. "I goings to miss playings wis yous. Not a lots, 'cause your guitar's is shit and you can'ts plays it for a damn, but I will miss yous . . . fuckings up my leads. Pissings me offs. I wills . . . remember yous alway for dat."  
  
"You real sweet, Skwisgaar."  
  
"I knows." He clapped a hand on top of Toki's head and shook him gently by the hair. "So try nots to die before me, fucker."   
  
"Right. You has to be de first one who does everythings."  
  
"Yah."  
  
Murderface broke up this lovely Scandinavian display of brotherly-slash-homoerotic affection by chucking his knife into the opposite wall and standing up. "If we're goin' down tonight guyzsh, let'sh give 'em a schow they'll never forget."  
  
Skwisgaar nodded as he stared at Toki. "We'll rocks off all deir fucking face off. Isn'ts dat right?" Silence. "Isn'ts dat right Toki?" Silence. Sigh. ". . . Fucking says somethings to me Toki. Please."  
  
Suicidal bravery gleamed in Toki's eyes—resignation at last. "I ready. Let's . . . goes forth and dies. Come on." He stood to his feet. The awesomeness radiating from him was the most metal thing ever. "They waiting for us."

"ARE YOU READY FOR THIS, MORTALLLLS?" Nathan snarled into the mic like a beast as he stalked the stage back and forth, glaring at the solid sea of humanity who roared their response. "I SAID,  **ARE YOU READDDDYYYYYY?** " The screams went up a few decibels. Bare arms formed a blanket of myriad skintones, hands unanimously displaying index and pinky.   
  
Cloaked in shadows, the rest of the band sat poised for action, motionless. Except for Toki, who seemed to be memorizing the texture of his left forearm. "Toki!" hissed Pickles from up on his drum altar. "The hell's up wit' yer arm? Is that a  _tattoo_?"  
  
"Is nothing," Toki lied, dropping his arm to his side. "Just remainders." Well, he wasn't actually  _lying_ ; like an academically challenged high schooler he had written the lyrics to  _A Monster Named Love_  on his skin. In Norwegian. Since he read that only slightly better than English and no one would call him on it anyway.  
  
Skwisgaar sidled up to Toki and checked the straps on his false cast. "Dees is too tights, dildo. You's goings to cuts off your blood's circus." He fixed the cast as Toki stood numbly, listening to Nathan practically incite the audience to orgasm with nothing but his voice. When Skwisgaar was finished he clapped a hand on Toki's shoulder and said, "Try nots to sounds likes shit, Wartooth. We's recordings dis, you knows," before taking up his set position on stage.  
  
"—THEN PREPARE," Nathan boomed, "FOR A JOURNEY INTO DARKNESS. A DESCENT INTO THE DUNGEONS OF A TORTURED MIND . . ."   
  
Murderface began strumming a slow, steady riff on his Thunderbird as the shadows started to lift from the stage.  
  
". . . WHERE THE ONLY COMFORT TO BE FOUND . . ."  
  
Toki came in with another layer to the riff as Pickles started a simple beat with the bass, ride cymbal, and snare. It was the breath before the scream.  
  
". . . IS IN THE RED EYES OF THE RATS THAT SURROUND YOUUUU."  
  
With jaw set and lips pinched tightly, Skwisgaar struck a piercing screech way up on the frets and then unleashed a full 32nd note assault as Toki brought his cast down on his strings, producing a skull-splitting metallic thunderclap that was as shocking as it was gorgeous. Pyrotechnics exploded on all sides, showering sparks and dazzling red glitter into the pit. Yellow and red lights erupted on stage, illuminating the band in all their brutal glory. The sound of the guitars was deafening, yet the excitement of the audience and their screams of ecstatic joy came close to matching their loudness. Pickles threw himself into his drums and led the band into the beginning of  _Staircase to Hell_ , and for a little while Toki forgot all about everything except making love to his guitar with his hands.  
  
The response to Toki's new sound was incredible and the crowd loved it, screaming extra loud whenever he had finished shredding a heavy solo. He felt a little awkward whenever the spotlights captured him—he wasn't used to being the center of attention like this. That was Skwisgaar's thing. Still, all that extra practice paid off and he didn't fuck up anything, even with the lingering reminder of the recording devices being able to pick up the slightest scrambled note or botched rhythm. The band tore through their show, song after brutal song, until at last the finale was upon them.  
  
Nathan emptied a bottle of water over himself and threw it into the clambering masses. He shook his head, sending drops flying from his hair. "This next one is a little different," he growled to the still-cheering audience. "Maybe you'll like it. Maybe not. We'll see."  
  
Pickles grimaced in agony as he began to lay out one of those drippy 1950s doo-wop beats, the rest of the band joining in slowly and trying to stifle their nausea and shame. A quiet lull struck the crowd, and Nathan let out a heavy sigh as he began to sing in a surprisingly lyrical voice: " _I love you more than words can say . . . I need your love both night and day . . . I cannot live without you there, to hold me close with warmth and care_  . . ."  
  
The audience turned into petrified mimes, shocked to hear this sappy drivel oozing from the mouth of the world's most metal, bloodthirsty singer. It was shocking. Appalling. A crime against music, committed by the last person on earth that anyone would suspect.  
  
A rosebud of panic had begun to bloom in Toki's chest, to put it poetically; his mouth went dry, his hands began to shake and he suddenly forgot his own name. He couldn't do this. He couldn't function. He just wanted to run off the stage right now. He tossed his hair to get Skwisgaar's attention and then shook his head at him to signal that he couldn't go through with it. Skwisgaar made a horrendously evil face in response and mouthed "I will KILLS you" between clenched teeth. Murderface joined in on their silent conversation, picked up on Toki's cold-feet-retreat plan, and similarly threatened death with an elaborate dance of eyebrows and gap-toothed snarls. Toki buckled and tried not to cry. He had no choice now, he thought, staring at Nathan's back. He'd have to face the music.  
  
Nathan had his eyes closed tightly, concentrating on not letting himself choke on the endless stream of revolting words. " _Love love love . . . I love you so, more than you will ever know . . . so kiss me now and smile bright_ —"  
  
Toki took a breath a snarled into a nearby mic: "BECAUSE A MONSTER'S RISING UP TONIIIIGHT!"   
  
Skwisgaar and Murderface ditched the happy melody they had been playing and lit into an ear-smashing aural assault led by Toki and his wailing chainsaw guitar. Pickles floundered for two seconds before his survival instincts kicked in and he began to hammer out the first powerful rhythm he could think of to match the mutinous guitarists. Nathan whipped around with a face that looked as if he were either going to have a heart attack or detonate in rage. He was glaring right at Toki, who tried to look both innocent and apologetic at the same time. He nodded his head to tell Nathan to get back in his place, which was sacrilegious—no one told the frontman what to do. But Nathan did, and he pretended that he hadn't just been overruled by his own band. Those feelings of betrayal didn't get any better when he heard what Toki had begun to sing:  
  
" _There's a monster living in my flesh . . . A feasting parasite, digessst. Eats me alive from de inside out . . . I need a knife to carve!_ " JUN JUN. " _De monster!_ " JUN JUN. " _Ouuttt!_ " JUN JUN RREEEEE!  
  
Skwisgaar's X-plorer squealed, complementing the heavy rhythm of Toki's guitar. Pickles had no idea what was going on but he was doing the best he could to fake it. It must have been working because the audience slowly began to come back to life, roaring when Toki once again took his place in front of the mic.   
  
" _De monster crawled into my skin, like maggots burrow deep within_." He was reading the Norwegian lyrics off his arm and his English had never sounded better. Ironically. " _Cannot kill it, cannot fight. De monster makes me dreammmm . . . toniiiight_."  
  
Nathan, unwilling to stand by and let himself be KO'd without throwing a single punch, began to sing the original song. Rather than clashing, the two separate lyrics blended together, with Toki grunting the lead and Nathan offering the melodic backup in a sick, twisted, bizarre love song.  
  
" _In my dreams you were there_ —"  
  
" _I need you now my dearest one_  . . ."  
  
" _Causing carnage everywhere_ —"  
  
" _Your light shines on me like the sun_  . . ."  
  
" _Flames rolling off your tongue_ —"  
  
" _Take my hand, we'll travel far_  . . ."  
  
" _As you crush de bones_ —"  
  
" _And go to where_ —"  
  
"- _of de Forgotten_ —"  
  
"- _the rainbows_ —"  
  
"- _Onesss_."  
  
"- _arrre_."  
  
Skwisgaar shredded into the bridge of the song, whipping his hair around as the audience steadily began to lose their minds. Toki was sweating so badly in his anxiety that he had to get creative with his shoulder in order to wipe the perspiration from his forehead. Doing good. Still alive. Just a few more verses, then it will all be over, he can put down his guitar, take a bow, and then lay down and die. Oh, sweet death. Sweet lovely death, I am waiting for your breath.  
  
He and Nathan ad-libbed their way through the song, their completely different voices forming a strange harmony with one another that added a whole new dimension to a previously flat song. It was something new, something strange. And they were all starting to like it. But only Nathan knew. Only Nathan felt it shatter inside, that delicate something he had been trying to keep safe all this time. The crowd had disappeared—no one existed on earth now but he and Toki, and they sang to each other like a pair heavy metal doves:  
  
" _Reign supreme but bow to me_ —"  
  
" _And if we never meet again_  . . ."  
  
" _Crowned in blood, my undead king_ —"  
  
" _My love for you will never end_  . . ."  
  
" _De monster poisoning my blood_ —"  
  
" _You'll always be here in my heart_  . . ."  
  
" _Belongs to you_ —"  
  
And because Nathan already knew the words, he joined Toki in unison, their voices blending together as they sang: " _Its name . . . is Love_." Then his throat shut itself and would not allow him to whisper another word. It didn't matter anyway. The song was over. Skwisgaar boasted another impossibly fantastic lick and allowed Toki to take over, closing the song in three strikes. Pickles thankfully had enough sense to feel the ending when it was coming and did a final crash before dropping his sticks and sitting back, dumbfounded and shirtless, panting from the brick-shitting terror he had just endured.  
  
The audience was utterly silent for all of ten seconds. Dethklok stared back at them anxiously, not knowing what to expect. And then everything  _exploooded_. People began screaming in hysteria, throwing themselves into and over each other, clawing at the stage like frantic cats trying to get out of a bathtub, whistling and howling and railing for an encore. Nathan actually had to step back to get away from the arms reaching out for him; if he were to throw himself into the mosh he'd probably get torn into a million pieces and eaten alive without a single drop of blood even touching the floor.  
  
He lifted the mic still clenched in his fist. "Uh. Thank you all. That was . . ."   
  
He turned to look at Toki, who said shyly into his own mic, " _A Monster Named Love_."  
  
" _A Monster Named Love_ , sung by our own Toki Wartooth. This was his first, uh . . . vocal debut . . . so give it up for the kid with the BIGGEST FUCKIN BALLS ON THE PLANET."  
  
The resounding cheer was so loud that the walls began to crack. Soon thousands of people were chanting "TO-KI! TO-KI!" over and over again. The suddenly bashful Norwegian raised his arm to the audience and tried not to blush at Nathan's flattering comment, though he guessed that the niceness was only a precursor to the astounding violence that would take place backstage in a few minutes.  
  
"This was a special night for us all," Nathan went on, pointing to the crowd. "This was  _your_  night. Thanks for coming out here and making us feel good. The fifth world tour had begun—see you in Paris."   
  
Cheers and chants of "DETH-KLOK! DETH-KLOK!" echoed throughout the concert hall. Nathan planted the mic back on its stand and turned around, striding calmly toward Skwisgaar, who looked around himself in confusion. As if Toki were the one Nathan should be going for instead. He didn't think to move until Nathan was within arm's reach of him, and by then running away wasn't an option; Skwisgaar attempted to bolt but Nathan's hand shot out and grabbed a fistful of blond hair. The audience loved it. Skwisgaar screeched and clutched at his scalp to intercept some of the pain as Toki darted to his side.  
  
"Stop it, Nathan!" he cried. "He didn't do it, is all me! Don't—"  
  
The big man reached out with his big hand and nabbed Toki by the back of the neck, rendering him helpless and submissive. Like picking up a cat by the scruff of its neck. "I know," he growled, staring at Toki with uncharacteristically wet green eyes. "It was always YOU."  
  
Pickles leaped down from the altar in alarm and sprang after Nathan as he proceeded to drag the two Scandinavians backstage. Murderface wasn't far behind—witnessing a gruesome snuffing was something he never missed.  
  
"Ah! AAAAAAH!" Skwisgaar screamed endlessly throughout the hallway, kicking and putting up a forceful resistance that didn't really mean shit to a guy of Nathan's size. " _Ge slipp! Inne om namn av_ OH MY GODS lets goes of my fucking hairs you sons of a bitch! Dat HURTS!"  
  
"That's kinda the point," Nathan grunted, giving an extra hard tug and forcing a squeal from his left-hand victim.  
  
"Please don't kills us," Toki begged as Nathan  kicked off the door to the dressing room. "I can explains everythings—"  
  
"I know. And you're gonna start explaining RIGHT NOW."  
  
He released Toki and tossed Skwisgaar away, then brushed off the strands of blond hair sticking to his hand. Skwisgaar bounced off the wall and tumbled to the floor. Toki kneeled down to help him to his feet. He didn't want to be the only one standing up to a dangerously pissed off Nathan Explosion. Pickles and Murderface breathlessly appeared in the doorway and Pickles immediately began to coach: "A'right now Nate'n, jest calm down a little an' try not ta—"  
  
"Did YOU know anything about this?" Nathan growled over his shoulder.  
  
Pickles blanched. "Fuck no. I was jest improvisin the whole song. Ya hafta admit, it did sound pretty metal—"  
  
"Which one of you DID IT?" Nathan demanded, taking a step toward Toki and Skwisgaar, who found themselves literally backed into a corner and blocked by a solid mass of rage. "Which one of you fuckin read my notebook? Is NOTHING SACRED to you glögg-suckin Eurotrash assholes? Do I have to keep my shit fuckin locked away or something?"  
  
"Well, I do believe  _that_  wuzsh a rayshisht comment—"  
  
"Murderface, jest shettup. Dude. Nate'n, hey. C'mon. Why don'tcha ease up on 'em an' siddown—"  
  
"Why don't you just SHUT THE FUCK UP AND MIND YOUR OWN BUSINESS, PICKLES."  
  
Skwisgaar peered over Nathan's shoulder and said to the pwned drummer, "See? I  _tolds_  you's dat you needs to minds your own bee's nest—"  
  
"Skwisgaar," Nathan uttered, "I am very close to smashing your skull in with my bare fist. Don't make me."  
  
"I am not scareds of you," he spat, challenging Nathan by sticking his face out as an offering. "Fucking brings its on,  _Tonto_."  
  
It was a well known fact that anyone who called Nathan "Tonto" ended up dead or mutilated beyond recognition. The band knew this. It was a guarantee, practically paid the fee for the obituary ad. This was precisely why Toki threw himself in front of Skwisgaar as Nathan cracked his knuckles in preparation for rearranging a pair of well-defined cheekbones.  
  
"Stop it, Nathan! We didn't means to doos it! We was only try to saves your career."  
  
"So dat's you don't dies a total pussy," Skwisgaar added.  
  
Nathan frowned. "The fuck are you talking about?"  
  
The tears Toki had been holding in all night finally burst out. He went to pieces. Shreds. Tatters. Probably the worst breakdown he'd ever had to date. God, he needed medication.

"We knows," he choked, "we knows you is d-dying! De song you had writed would follows you to de graves. We c-couldn't lets you does that. So we stoled your note's book and finds that song, and we practice every days for months so we could plays it to makes you happy one last times . . ."  
  
Murderface made a strangled sound and wiped away his own tears. "That'sh sho tchrue."  
  
Toki turned his eyes to Nathan's, and once again Nathan found himself struck by the desperation he saw, the need. The . . . oh my God. It couldn't be.  
  
"Because I loves you, Nathan," rasped Toki before he let out a mighty sob. "I really fucking loves you."  
  
It  _was_. God damn it. God  _damn_  it.  
  
Nathan released a frustrated roar and Pickles ducked out of the way as a fist swung past his head and impacted with the wall. Not many people can punch a perfect hole through two layers of sheet rock but Nathan was one who could. And that's what he had done.  
  
"You don't. Understand. Toki," he guttered through clenched teeth. "That song was supposed to be hated. It was written to BE. SHITTY."  
  
Toki's eyebrows knitted in confusion. "Buh . . . but why?"  
  
"That was its purpose. I NEEDED people to hate it. I needed this for ME. But now people love it. They fuckin LOVE IT. Everything is ruined."  
  
"I'm sorry . . ."  
  
"And it's all because of  _you_ , Toki. Everything is your fault.  _Your_. Fucking fault."  
  
That is what is known as a below-the-belt hit. Flying out of left field, unanticipated, unexpected. Toki looked horrified, wide-eyed and implacably miserable. Then he hung his head and wept. Because he couldn't do anything else.  
  
Skwisgaar's jaw dropped open in disbelief and any fear he had felt earlier packed up and left town faster than the Christmas spirit on December 26th. "How ffffffucking  _dares_  you. I will kills you myselv-!"  
  
But Nathan wasn't sticking around to hear idle threats from a guy he could snap easier than a Slim Jim; he turned and walked out of the room, leaving Murderface to comfort a crying Toki, and Pickles to calm an angry Skwisgaar. Neither Murderface nor Pickles were much help at all and Toki probably needed to be committed to a psychiatric hospital, so they all decided the best thing to do was to say the hell with any backstage groupie parties and just go home and wait for Nathan to blow off some steam.  
  
But Toki didn't want to. "I not goes back there," he said in a gravelly voice, yet allowed himself to be corralled into the waiting Dethlimo. "Is not home anymores. I quits. I quits de band right now, calls Ofdensen and tells him I wants out—"  
  
"Stops wis de cries and shuts up," Skwisgaar snapped, but put an arm around Toki's shoulder comfortingly. "You's not quits anythings. Be gratesful dat at least we's still alifes."   
  
Murderface and Pickles slid into the seat across from them and then the limo began making its way back to Mordhaus. Toki fell silent and pulled away from Skwisgaar, bringing his knees up to his chest and huddling to one side so he could look out the window. Not that there way anything to see except his reflection. He sniffed and rubbed his face. "This makeup shit make my eye red." Quiet groan. "I thinks I gonna throws up."  
  
"D'we need ta pull over?" Pickles asked.  
  
Toki shook his head and hunkered down into a fetal position. It looked ridiculous for somebody dressed like a heavy metal sadist to be in that pose. He stared at the lyrics written on his left forearm and snuffled to get the fresh snot out of his nose. That stupid song had ruined everything. The  _one_  time Toki had actually tried to do something nice for another person and it had fucked things up a thousand times worse than it had been before. Now Nathan would never forgive him. It was worse than being dead. And Toki didn't even have the energy to put himself out of his own misery like a real Norseman. It was over. Over in the worst of ways.  
  
Because all of that love had been for nothing.


	8. Because No Other Word Fits

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the end. The last chapter. The final finale of finality. It doesn't get more endier than this. (Not counting the epilogue, of course.) I'm not gonna tell you anything at all about this chapter. You'll just have to read it for yourself.

Toki had gone straight to bed upon returning to Mordhaus, still dressed in his concert clothes and makeup. Skwisgaar was courteous enough—just barely—to wrestle off his bandmate's boots when he checked on him later; afterward he sauntered downstairs to the living room where the rest of the band was hanging out and getting drunk and/or stoned to cope with the stress. Skwisgaar dropped himself into a chair and sighed heavily, staring at the suspended TV with disinterest. It had already been a hell of a night, and it wasn't even 2 a.m. yet.  
  
The asexual newscaster was speaking in that typical, bland, accent-less voice:  _". . . from the investigation reported that over 300 fans were killed in as little as 20 minutes due to an audience stampede that left many hundreds more injured. Eyewitness reports from fans in the crowd are largely unrepentant, and dozens have been committed to local hospitals for attempted suicide. One survivor of a self-inflicted hammer blow to the head quoted before slipping into a coma, 'It was the most brutal f***ing song ever, like Heaven and Hell having a threesome with metal. I have no reason to live now, because life will not get any better than this.'_  
  
" _Dethklok has not yet commented on this tragedy but it is expected that the band will_ —"  
  
Skwisgaar put his heel to a pedal and turned off the TV. "Idi-otts-tick," he muttered, crossing his arms. "No one is talks about Nathan's dying yet. Dat's a little selvesflish? I guess whats dey don't knows won'ts kills dem . . . but it wills. I hopes dey all suicides when Nathan's die."  
  
"Huh. I guess now would be a bad time t' tell ya that Nate'n ain't dyin," Pickles murmured, flicking his lighter and sucking a drag off his hash pipe. He held it in for a few seconds before sighing lazily.  
  
"Whhhut," uttered Murderface and Skwisgaar flatly. Oh. The  _looks_  on their faces. I'd draw you a picture but this isn't an illustrated story. Yet.  
  
"He ain't dyin. I dunno what th' hell you guys 'r talkin about, but Nate'n ain't dyin. S'nuthin wrong with 'im."  
  
"You mean . . . he'sh not schitting himshelf to death?"  
  
Pickles chuckled. "S'at whatcha thought?"  
  
"Pfft, duhs. He only goes to de basthrooms likes every hours."  
  
"Yeah. T' beat off."  
  
"Oh."  
  
"But den why dids he alway says . . . ?"  
  
Pickles smirked that typical crooked smirk whenever he was buzzed and feeling invincible. "He's gotta thing fer Toki. Happened after Toki broke his legs fallin down the basement stairs. Lust 'r somethin, maybe love. Nate can't look at 'im without gettin stiff. S'why he wrote that shitty song. Audience hate. Bad vibes. Mental scars. Negative association. Bam. No more Tokiholism."   
  
"My god," Murderface gawped. "We had it all wrong. We . . . are the shtupidesht fuckersh alive."  
  
"Yyyep."  
  
Skwisgaar look utterly scandalized. "Nathan's is in loves with Toki?"  
  
Pickles shrugged one shoulder. "Dunno. But the song that was s'posed ta cure 'im ended up a smash hit. So he's still fucked. Hate ta be in  _his_ shoes."  
  
"Sho what now?"  
  
"Beats  _me_. I figured it'd work, the love song thing. Didn't plan fer you three t' go n' fuck things up. Guess that was yer big secret huh? Well. Congrats. Ya got  _my_  respect."  
  
Skwisgaar was on his feet and walking away.  
  
"Where d'you think  _you're_  going?" Murderface gargled.  
  
"What's it to yous?" Skwisgaar muttered. "It's is nots any bee's nests of  _yours_. You is not de mudder of me, so buzz offs to your's little bee's nest and starts minding it." And then he was gone.  
  
Pickles turned to Murderface and the two shared the same annoyed expression. "He has got  _some_  lip on 'im, don't he?"  
  
"Ah don't worry," the bassist grumbled. "He'zsh prob'ly jusht having hizsh period or shumthing."

The Dethklok frontman didn't make it back to Mordhaus until half past four. He had stayed at the concert, signed a few autographs, punched a few fans, then spent a long time backstage by himself with a bottle of Bacardi. Trying not to think.  
  
He hadn't even seen it coming. He should have. He must be the stupidest fucker alive. Anyone else probably could have seen it, but no. Not Nathan. Dumb ol' Nathan high-school-dropout Explosion, with an IQ barely comparable to his shoe size. Fucking Toki. This shit was all his fault. Nathan hated him.  
  
Hated him for saying that.  
  
_I loves you, Nathan. I really fucking loves you. I loves you, Nathan . . ._  
  
Over and over, like a broken record. And Nathan, being Nathan, couldn't deal. He was pissed. Pissed at himself. Pissed at the world. Pissed that the dumb kid he was trying not to fall in love with had ruined his life with three fucking words. So he blamed it all on Toki, made him cry, and then ran away from it all like a coward.  
  
"I am a fuckin coward," Nathan admitted under his breath. "A fuckin coward."  
  
Why couldn't he be a man about it? Why couldn't he have said something to Toki and just settled this bullshit once and for all? It wasn't Toki's fault. Toki was a clueless airhead with all the sense of a ten-year-old. He wasn't guilty of anything except for being so brutally goddamn cute. So whose fault was it?  
  
Love's. Love is to blame for everything, Nathan realized. War, crime, poverty, every album by Boston, terrorism, bird flu, everything. It all filters down to somebody's love for something. Love of violence, misery, money, religion, geese, really shitty music. Love turns men into pussies and women into Shannon Doherty. Love dissects your brain and rewires it all wrong, making you enjoy the feeling of being in immense pain without ever really realizing it. Love fucks up your friendships, your wardrobe, your career. And you let it. Because by the time it's infected your brain you're too stupid to do anything but sit back and watch it dismantle the rest of your life. You're a zombie. And the only cure for zombism is a shotgun blast to the head. No hope. There ain't no cure, there ain't no cure, there ain't no cure for love.  
  
_I loves you, Nathan. I really fucking loves you._  
  
"Goddd," Nathan groaned, thumping his forehead against the wall. "God God God God GOD."  
  
"Are you . . . praying?" Nathan turned his head to see Ofdensen standing in the doorway of the dressing room, eyebrows quirked. "If I'm interrupting some sort of wall-denting mantra, I can come back later."  
  
"No," came the replying grunt. "I'm just . . . whatever." Sigh. "Think I wanna go home."  
  
"The limo is waiting outside. I'll walk you there. Youu . . . look like you need some help anyway."  
  
"What's that s'posed to—" Nathan then answered his own question by taking a step in one direction while his upper body went in another. He wobbled, weaved and stumbled.   
  
Ofdensen sighed. "Come along, Nathan. You've had a rough night."  
  
"No shit? Gimme a fuckin hand here."  
  
As Nathan trudged wearily down the hall with one hand on his manager's shoulder, he thought about love and how unfair and cruel it was. He thought about it on the ride back to Mordhaus, and he was still thinking about it as he sat at the bar in the kitchen at 4:42 in the morning. And then—at long long last—something happened in that alcohol-dulled brain of his and the notion came to him like an overdue FedEx shipment: he didn't love Toki. The things he felt for his rhythm guitarist had nothing to do with love. Because love was hideous and evil, and not the cool kind of hideous and evil either. When Nathan thought of Toki's sadistic, smiling face he didn't want to put on argyle socks and wear a sweater. Hell no. He wanted to pin Toki down and shove his dick inside him and hear him scream about how great it felt.  _That_  wasn't love. It was way too merciful. And it wasn't lust. It was way too intimate.  
  
So what was it? What did Nathan feel? It  _acted_  like love. It  _looked_  like love and  _smelled_  and  _tasted_  just like it, but it was a completely different animal. It wasn't some no-name generic knockoff. No, this was something patented and protected by serious federal fucking law. It was the real thing, the whatever-the-hell everyone was trying to imitate and doing a piss poor job of it.   
  
It was like a hack version of a really great program, stripped of all the adware and spyware and registration codes and all of that unnecessary shit until nothing remained but the core, the original, what it was supposed to be all along before corporate greed tried to twist it into something gross and unnatural. This was love refined, but so refined that to call it love wouldn't be right.  
  
It was the anti-love. The original love that had gotten cloned and betrayed and was now facing off with its evil twin, and some hysterical lady had to decide which one to shoot when they both looked and acted alike. And she had no idea that the one who called himself the Anti was actually the good guy. She would shoot him down, real love would die, and everyone would ask for their money back at the end of the movie. Anti-love would lose. The box office would lose. There was no happy ending.  
  
_I loves you, Nathan. I really fucking loves you._  
  
Do you, Toki? Or are you just saying that because no other word fits? Is the word you're looking for the same one I'm trying to find? 'Cause if it is . . . I think I want us to find it together. I'm sorry for how I treated you. If you ever talk to me again I swear on every fuckin thing there is to swear on that I'll make it up to you. Somehow. I'll do it. 'Cause . . . you deserve it. More than any other person. I'll make everything right again, if you let me. And I'll sign it all with  
  
Anti-love,  
  
Nate'n

Toki woke up dying of thirst. He smacked his lips and rubbed his eyes, which stung and burned like all the fires of hell. It must be the makeup. Got into his eyes or something. Owwie. He rolled over and squinted at the clock on his headboard. 4:55. Either that or 11:20. Who cared? Not Toki. He rolled back over and discovered that his fishnet shirt had made a grille pattern all over his torso, and he'd also gotten black smudges all over Teddy from holding him against his face. He was also burning up in these fucking pants and they were sticking to his skin and he still had his socks on. He couldn't go back to sleep like this.  
  
So Toki got up and drowsily shuffled to his bedroom door, opened it, stepped nonchalantly over Skwisgaar's sleeping body (who had been keeping guard for all of ten minutes), and went down the hall to the bathroom. He didn't want to click on the lights but he had to, and it was so bright that he decided that it just wasn't worth it and turned them back off again. Now he was  _really_  blind. He tugged off the tight fishnet shirt and scraped off each of his socks with his toes, then decided to do something about his thirst. Luckily he knew his way around Mordhaus enough that he didn't need eyes to find his way to the kitchen, so that was where he headed.  
  
They had two kitchens actually: one kitchen for professionals where for-real  _food_  was prepared, and one kitchen made just for the band that had a giant fridge filled with booze and sliced deli meat and cabinets stocked with junk and candy. It was every alcoholic minor's dream. It was also where Nathan sat slumped over the bar, surrounded by empty bottles.  
  
Toki padded across the tiles completely unawares, opened the fridge and clinked his way among the bottles and cans until he found a carton of Skwisgaar's soymilk. He stood up and tilted the carton back, guzzled away . . . then his eyes drifted to the side and noticed Nathan's hulking form at the bar.  
  
"Nklurrgh!"  
  
Brief anatomy-slash-pseudo-health lesson here: there are deep vomits (from the stomach and small intestine) and then there are shallow vomits (from the lower esophagus and throat). Toki shallow-vomited soymilk out his mouth and nose and back into the carton as he simultaneously screamed. Soymilk exploded—loudly—out of his face, to put it another way. And the noise caused Nathan to jump awake with a start.  
  
"Fuck the what . . . ?" he groaned, looking around.  
  
Toki did what Tokis are best at doing and ducked behind the open fridge door and pretended he was a cute little cocktail frank with a fancy toothpick sticking through the middle and a mustache at one end. Unfortunately you could see his bare feet awash in a puddle of soymilk from the other side, so the Li'l Smokies make-believe didn't last very long.  
  
"That you, Pickles?"  
  
"Uh . . ." Toki stammered. "Yehh! I jest . . . gittin's sum beee-ers. Uh. Ney-ver minds meeee, Nuh-Nate'n."  
  
Guess which word gave it away. ( ~~Hint~~ Answer: it was the last one.)  
  
". . . Toki?"  
  
Toki froze (he wasn't that far from it—the fridge was blowing cold air on him) and looked upward very slowly to see Nathan gazing down at him expressionlessly. "Haa . . . hi," he said in a small voice.  
  
Nathan leaned on the fridge door and arched his eyebrows. "You've gotta milk mustache." Pause. "Uh. Milk. In your . . . mustache. On your whole face actually."  
  
"I knows. I . . . sneeze."  
  
Pause.  
  
"Why're you hiding down there?"  
  
"I is . . . hot?"  
  
". . . But you're shivering."  
  
"Candy's high. Diabete. I gots . . . Parkingstone's Degrees."  
  
Nathan didn't buy any of the three. "Stand up, Toki."  
  
Toki stood up. Reluctantly. Nathan reached out, noting the way he flinched, as if expecting to be hit. That was a stab in the heart. "I'm not mad at you," he rumbled softly, placing a hand on Toki's bare shoulder. ". . . Woah. You're freezing."  
  
"I in de fr-fridgelator. Where is freezings."  
  
"Then close the damn door. C'mon."  
  
The fridge was closed, barfy carton of soymilk put right back where it was supposed to go, and Nathan and Toki stood silently in the dark kitchen for a very long time. Actually it was a very short time, but the awkward silence made it seem like a very long time. Toki looked at the floor between them and tried to keep the tears from coming to his eyes. He was sick of crying like a baby . . . although it would probably be a great way to flush the shit out of his stinging eyes. He bottled it up anyway; he wasn't going to give that cruel bastard the pleasure of wringing another drop out of him.  
  
"I'm sorry for. The way. I acted earlier," Nathan said with great difficulty. "I didn't mean to get so . . . well. Yeah I did. You fucked me over in front of thousands of people. That was shitty." Pause. "But you stole the show. It really sounded . . . good. I didn't. Know you could sing."  
  
Toki half-shrugged a "whatever" and continued to avoid Nathan's eyes.  
  
"I'm sorry I've been such an asshole. It's been. For a long time now, I . . ." Find the words, find the words. Lyrical visionary, find the words. "What's wrong with your eyes?" Oh yeah. Nice save, chicken shit.  
  
Nathan lifted Toki's chin and looked at his face. "Wow. Those things are . . . bloodshot. Like a roadmap. You fall asleep in that shit?"  
  
"What does  _you_  cares? They're not—"  
  
"You're gonna go blind."  
  
"Is none of your con—"  
  
"And it's all over your face."  
  
"I doesn't gives a—"  
  
"You should wash it off before—"  
  
"I not takes order from you now SHUT UP!" Toki slapped Nathan's hand away, Nathan brought up his other hand, Toki blocked it with his forearm, Nathan reached out with his first hand and grabbed Toki by the back of the neck, hauled him in like a marlin, and smashed him against his body. Instant reaction. Toki's arms wrapped around Nathan's shoulders and squeezed as the larger man did as much. Tight. It was hard to tell if it was a stranglehold or a hug. The lack of a live audience and four corners could only mean it was a hug.  
  
Toki let out a sob against Nathan's shoulder and bit him for no real reason. Maybe for making him cry again. Soymilk and black makeup stained Nathan's shirt. Nathan didn't mind/care/give a dead rat's ass. He was just glad to be touching Toki. Just fucking  _touching_  him. That's all. It felt so good. He finally understood what those millions of smarmy jackoffs meant when they said they "never wanted to let go". But they didn't really know. They weren't in anti-love. No, he and Toki were the first. The last. The only. That's what it felt like. Exclusive rights, members only. Badges and everything, a two-man task force sent to blow the shit out of that poseur bastard called love. It was going down. Its ass was grass. Toast. Dead meat. A dead meat and grass sandwich on burnt toast. God Nathan felt fucking INVINCIBLE, like he could punt a Panzer tank 75 yards and mow down a line of Incredible Hulks standing shoulder-to-shoulder.  
  
He gripped Toki's bare skin tightly, feeling it warm under his touch. He pressed his nose into the brown hair and growled softly, "It's not your fault. It's mine. It . . . was never your fault. That song . . . You know, fuck it. I don't care. You're more important. And I'm sorry I didn't treat you like . . . that I didn't treat you better. What you deserve. 'Cause what you did tonight, Toki, it was fuckin incredible. And I really meant it when I said it took balls to pull it off. I'm . . . I am so goddamn proud. Of you. To have you in the band. I'm not just saying that. I mean it. Mean it with every fuckin . . . every breath of my . . . God I don't give a shit anymore, Toki. I really don't. Just know that I'm sorry for everything and don't let go of me."  
  
"I won't," came the muffled reply. "I dies with you."  
  
". . . Well. Uh, that's . . . a bit extreme. You don't ha—"  
  
"What's is de other's use of me? I has not anothers. De band's is my life. You won't goes to Death's house alone, Nathan. I comes with you."  
  
". . . Toki. I don't think you under . . ." Pause. "You act like I'm gonna die tomorrow. Is that . . . wait. You think I'm  _dying_?"  
  
Toki pulled back, revealing clean trails down his makeup-smudged cheeks where tears had run their courses. "I knows you is. I knows since forever ago. Dyings of a gut's sickness."  
  
The look on Nathan's face was almost hilarious. "Uh. No I'm not."  
  
The look on Toki's face after Nathan said that actually  _was_  hilarious. "Yes you is."  
  
"No. I'm not."  
  
". . . A liver's sickness then?"  
  
"No."  
  
". . . Barbecue sauce-bloods?"  
  
"No."  
  
". . . Fibromyalgia?"  
  
"The hell's that?"  
  
"YOU IS NOT DYING?"  
  
"NO. I never WAS."  
  
Toki smiled joyously for the first time in ages, then he hauled off and punched Nathan right in the jaw. Nathan bit the inside of his cheek and spat bloody chiclets and broken teeth across the kitchen counter as he took a backward dive in slow motion. He sprawled out onto the floor with a resounding THUD, like he'd just been decked by Mohammad Ali's white Scandinavian nephew, and waited for his lower mandible to fall off. Because that's what it felt like it was going to do.  
  
Toki was on Nathan like black on metal, straddling his waist and delivering a nice variety of slaps, thrashes, chokings and kisses between breathless cries of "you dumb sons of a bitch" and "I loves you so much". Nathan didn't know what was going on for the first few seconds, and it didn't sink in that Toki was pecking all over his face like a lovesick hen until he was ready to pass out from a combination of alcohol, unforeseen violence, and the ungodly hour. How he avoided going unconscious was a miracle, but he certainly didn't want to miss out on the nice part of getting his ass kicked by Toki Wartooth.  
  
He caught Toki's swinging arms in his fists and growled, "You're gonna have to do better than that." Push. Twist. Shove. Toki was on the floor. Slipping in soymilk. Whoops. Flat on his back. Nathan came down over him. Toki butted his forehead against Nathan's. Nathan reeled and lost his grip, regained it in a fistful of brown hair. Toki latched both hands into Nathan's black hair and almost ripped it out by the roots when he jerked him downward. Right into his face.  
  
Noses collided. Lips met. Mouths opened. Tongues touched. It tasted like vodka and blood and soymilk. Hair tangled, dragged through makeup and sweat and snarls of tightly clenched fingers. Deeper now. The taste was revolting but the feeling of warm slippery flesh made up for it. Toki twisted his hands in Nathan's hair as the heavier man put his full weight on him. The pressure felt good but it made breathing hard. Harder than it already was.  
  
Toki broke away with a gasp and Nathan crawled up onto his hands and knees, hair draping down like a dark curtain. For a second or two they both remained motionless, catching their breath and wondering if they had really done what they thought they had just done.  
  
"Dids we just . . . ?"  
  
"Yeah." Pant. "Yeah I think we did."  
  
"Wowie."  
  
"No shit."  
  
". . . I really likes it."  
  
"Me too."  
  
They met each other's eyes. Nathan reached down and combed a few strands of hair out of Toki's mouth, then made a concerned expression. "You really need to get that black stuff off your face. You'll look like hell in the morning."  
  
"Not as much as  _you_  wills." Toki gently tapped the tender spot on Nathan's jaw that was already beginning to bruise. "I kicks your butts."  
  
"I let you."  
  
"Yeah right."  
  
"I could split you in two any day of the week, Toki."  
  
"Tries it. I dares you."  
  
Nathan leered at the implications. "Careful what you wish for." He sat up, the lewd smile faded. "C'mon. You need to get that stuff off your face. You look worse than Alice Cooper after a day at the garage."  
  
He helped Toki to his feet and together they set off in search of a B-A-S-T-H-R-O-H-M-N-S-E.

Toki had started out with a washcloth to the face but then the black makeup started to run all over the place and it made a real mess, so he decided that it would just be easier to take a shower. The second floor bathroom was spacious enough, so while Toki hosed off all evidence of the concert, Nathan leaned over the sink and inspected the damage to his face. Not too bad. A few busted teeth, mostly molars. Nothing serious. Couple shreds of still-bleeding flesh. That was going to bother him for weeks. Jesus Christ, that kid could throw a punch. The left side of Nathan's jaw was already beginning to turn a gruesome shade of yellow-green. He was lucky it didn't get punched right off. That would have been awesome. Brutal, but awesome.  
  
Toki plodded out of the shower stall looking fresh faced and dead tired, with his hair wrapped up in a towel and dressed in the Mordhaus-standard black bathrobe with the band logo on the back. He yawned loudly and stood next to Nathan at the bathroom counter, gazing at his reflection.  
  
"I fucking tire. I gonna goes to bed now."  
  
Nathan finished gargling and spat blood-tinted mouthwash into the sink. "Okay. Hey Toki?"  
  
"Mm?"  
  
"Are we . . . good? I mean, are we cool? After. What happened in the kitchen."  
  
Toki looked like he was going to shrug but his shoulders never made the effort. "Sure. You makes me cry, I beats you in de face, we kiss and makes up. S'fine. Everybody's does it."   
  
"Uh. Alright. As long as we're cool."  
  
"Yeah, we cool."  
  
Pause. "Okay. Uh . . . see you in the . . . tomorrow then."  
  
"G'nite, Nate'n." And then Toki disappeared out the door.  
  
Nathan sighed and put both hands on either side of the sink, leaning heavily on the counter and hanging his head. He stared at the traces of blood and mouthwash in the sink and decided to take a shower as well. Because he smelled like B.O. and soymilk. And also because kissing Toki had gotten Not-So-Li'l-Nathan's hopes up. So the Dethklok frontman peeled off his clothes, got in the shower, washed off, jerked off, rinsed off, shut off, dried off, and walked off. He didn't even want to know what time it was. All he wanted was to sleep uninterrupted for the next 17 hours. He'd think about what the hell he was going to do with all this unresolved sexual tension tomorrow.  
  
But when Nathan entered his room he was greeted by an unexpected surprise.  
  
"Oh fuck  _me_ ," he groaned under his breath.  
  
Toki, who, while en route to his room, had suddenly gotten too tired to make it back to his makeup-stained twin bed on the third floor, had decided to do like usual and invite himself into Nathan's personal quarters, making a nice little nest in the middle of the oversized bed. He was at this moment curled up with his back to the door, his wet hair let loose from the towel and getting the pillows all damp. And his toes peeked out from beneath the black sheets like those cute little cocktail franks I mentioned earlier. It was the most endearing, distressing, and obnoxiously adorable thing in the whole world. Nathan began to get the feeling that some cosmic force somewhere was fucking with him, like he was trapped in a horrible story written by a raving lunatic with a thing for homoerotic clichés. Well fuck  _that_  shit. If it was homoerotic clichés they wanted, homoerotic clichés they shall have.  
  
Nathan, conveniently dressed in nothing but a towel around his hips, shut the door behind himself and walked to the edge of his bed. He stared down at his guitarist's peaceful, snoozing form. "Toki," he said very  _very_  softly, "if you don't wake up and get out of my bed  **right now**  . . . I'm afraid I'm gonna have to fuck you. I don't  _wanna_  . . ." Ha ha ha, yeah. ". . . But I'll do it if you make me. You have to the count of three." Pause. "Onetwothree. Alright. I warned you."  
  
He climbed into bed, making the mattress dip and squeak under his weight. He put his hand on Toki's shoulder, rolling him over onto his back, and crawled between his legs. Toki stirred and mumbled groggily, eyes fluttering open. Shit. Nathan froze and waited for him to reckon the predicament he was in.  
  
"Nate'n?" Toki asked with that calm sort of confused-but-not-really-alarmed tone of voice. He looked down at the large, mostly-naked man who was crouched between his spread legs.  
  
"Hi," Nathan grunted awkwardly. "You're in my bed. I've got an erection and I wanna stick it in you. Is that okay?"  
  
"What?" Toki sat up on his elbows, eyes wide with surprise.  
  
"I don't know how. I mean. I  _think_  I know. How to . . . do it." God, this was so embarrassing. "I'll wear a condom. And use lubrication. I'll . . . try. To be gentle."  
  
"Wha—you gonna to . . . wh-what's de hell you needs a condo for?"  
  
"Condom."  
  
"Condemn?"  
  
"A rubber."  
  
"Condemn a rubber?"  
  
"NO."  
  
"What de hell's you talking about!?"  
  
"I know you're not this stupid, Toki."  
  
"I'm not stupid, I doesn't understands de fucking word!"  
  
Nathan sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose. God, there was no right way to do this. "Alright. Look. Relax. Lay back." He gently pushed Toki down onto the pillows; he didn't resist at all. "Just . . . yeah. Relax. Get comfortable."  
  
Worry began to set it. You could see it in the way the eyebrows arched up in the center of Toki's forehead. "Nathan, what is you doing?"  
  
"I have no fuckin idea." No sense in lying. He'd find out sooner or later.  
  
"Is we . . . gonna has sex or somethings?"  
  
"I thi . . . yeah I. I think so. Pretty sure."  
  
"Oh."   
  
Silence fell. They stared at each other. You couldn't get any more un-romantic than this, but it fit in perfectly with the whole anti-love thing. Nathan reached down and untied Toki's robe, opening it wide and revealing the gloriously naked body of a ~~Greek~~ Norwegian god. Seriously. The kid was chiseled. Nathan never felt so fat and ugly in his whole life. He was overreacting, of course. Luckily the light was dim enough that he didn't completely lose his cool. Besides, he had other things that made up for his out-of-shapeness.  
  
Nathan unwrapped the towel from his hips and tossed it to the side, then watched Toki break into a sweat and squirm. "Nate'nnn," he said lowly, eyes transfixed on the obvious, "this is not gonna works."  
  
"Yes it will."  
  
"No ways. That thing's . . . is so big."  
  
"Thank you."  
  
"No. I means, is  **too**  big."  
  
"It'll fit."  
  
"No it won't."  
  
"I can make it."  
  
"As ifs. Goodbye—" Toki started to crawl away but Nathan reached out and put a hand on his chest, holding him in place. "Please Nathan," he whimpered. Oh, that sounded hot. "You gonna kill me with that."  
  
"No I won't, stop worrying."  
  
"Then makes it get smaller."  
  
"I can't."  
  
"Nathan—"  
  
" _Toki_." He took Toki's face in his hands. "Goddammit. Trust me. I am not gonna hurt you."  
  
Toki frowned apprehensively. "You promise?"  
  
"No."  
  
"Does you loves me?"  
  
"No."  
  
Toki looked scared and confused. You would be too if English wasn't your first language and you had to talk yourself out of getting cloven in twain by a dick of Goliath proportions. "Then why does you wants to doos this to me?"  
  
"Because I  _don't_  love you."  
  
"What's de hell you are  _talking_  about!?" Toki wailed, thrashing around like a fish in the bottom of a canoe. "I doesn't under _stands_!"  
  
"It's complicated. Hey. Stop that. Shh sh sh." Nathan leaned down and nuzzled Toki's cheek comfortingly; he stopped squirming and lay still, allowing the larger man's hands to stroke up and down his bare chest in a way that felt very nice.  
  
"Ooh," Toki murmured, surprised.  
  
"Feels good?"  
  
"Yehhhh. I didn't . . . knew you could be so gently."  
  
"It's not like I break everything I touch," Nathan rumbled, massaging Toki's chest and reaching up to caress his neck in a very uncharacteristically-Nathan way. "I can be . . . nice. Sometimes."  
  
"But you's likes a bull in a Chinese store most of de . . . ooh." Nathan was tracing circles around Toki's taut, pebbly nipple with one painted fingernail. Blue eyes slowly became dark and murky as the pleasure seeped in. "Ooh that feel . . ."  
  
"Nice?"  
  
"Yyyeh." Toki smiled, eyes half closed.  
  
Nathan grinned slightly and brought his hand to Toki's cheek, touching it delicately and rubbing his thumb along the fine hair of his mustache. He petted his eyebrows and combed the damp hair out of his eyes, slowly and wordlessly reassuring Toki that he didn't mean to sexually annihilate him.   
  
"See?" Nathan murmured. "I can make this . . . good. For us both."  
  
Toki looked a little doubtful, torn between common sense and basic instinct. The only problem was he didn't have much experience in either of those two fields, so he ended up giving in to the one he had been born with. And it sure as shit wasn't common sense.  
  
"Okay," he consented. "But behaves. No beast's acting. I am . . . a delicate flower."  
  
Says the guy sporting a six pack and pecs you could polish diamonds on. But Nathan wasn't in the mood to split hairs right now. No, he was in the mood to split Tokis. And he actually had permission.  
  
"I'll try," he uttered. That was the best he could offer. He wasn't going to make a promise if there was any chance he could break it, because for all his metalness, Nathan hated liars more than pop music and he didn't exactly want to go around broadcasting that he was a man of  _some_ morals. Loose morals. Like 80-year-old crackwhore loose kind of morals. But still morals.  
  
He tucked his damp, dark hair behind his ear before leaning down and meeting Toki's lips in a kiss. It tasted a lot better than before, still like blood, but at least the soymilk flavor was gone. Nathan trailed his large hand down Toki's side, following a path along his hip, his thigh, sliding under to grip the back of Toki's knee. That produced a snicker.  
  
"Ticklish?" Nathan murmured, pulling away and rolling his lips.  
  
"A littles."  
  
Nathan did the same with Toki's other side, but this time he didn't snicker.  
  
"I really likes that," he murmured, reaching down to place his smaller hands over Nathan's.  
  
"Like what?"  
  
"When you touching me. Alls over likes that." He guided the singer's hand down his muscular belly. "I wants you to does it heres too. Down . . ."  
  
He didn't have to finish. Nathan knew, and he gently took Toki's wakening cock into his hand, stroking it firmly and causing him to close his eyes and breathe through his mouth.  
  
"Yyyyeah," he sighed heavily, a hint of a smile curving his mouth. "I likes this."  
  
So did Nathan, but he kept quiet, absorbed in his own thoughts as he continued to fondle Toki. He never really realized how satisfying it could be to make someone else feel good instead of just taking all the pleasure for himself. This was different from groupies and girlfriends (aside from the obvious fact that this time his partner was minus one vagina). He must really not love Toki a whole lot to be doing something this gay and insane.   
  
The slim body beneath him bowed slightly, hips arching upward. When he looked down at those smoldering blue eyes, Nathan stopped thinking altogether and let the wild animal inside him out of its cage. But Toki was ready to fight it, and they went at each other with raw, savage passion.  
  
It all happened so quickly from there; they kissed as if starved for affection all their lives, ravenous and sloppy. When that fell short of satisfying their hunger, they took to nipping and biting, Toki pulling sharply on Nathan's hair if he bit too hard. No blood drawn yet, but lasting marks were certainly delivered. Hips met, grinding their dicks together. Fingers grasped and dug in, leaving crescent shaped indentations and red lines. Legs hugged Nathan's waist and squeezed. Nothing on earth could feel better than this.  
  
"Alright," he grunted deeply, pulling away. "Alright. I . . . gotta. Getta."  
  
"What's ever, just hurry," Toki snapped, wiping the saliva from his mustache and gathering his long hair behind his head.  
  
Nathan clambered over to the bedside table, taking care to avoid smashing his sensitive equipment into Toki's knees, and rummaged around in the drawer until he found what he needed. Toki watched, half-delirious with desire and just a little bit fascinated, as Nathan struggled hilariously with the condom packet and snarled curses at everything until he finally got it open. With a little bit of magic from that endless tube of fun (a.k.a. self-warming lubricant), they were almost ready to rock 'n roll. Or something a little more metal.   
  
Nathan slathered his fingers in K-Y and hoped like hell that Toki wouldn't freak out by what was going to happen next. He handled it very well—he gripped the covers and bit his lower lip and let Nathan put one of his large fingers into him. Nathan let him get used to it before playing around a bit, adding another finger, spreading and stretching and trying not to do anything that would make Toki squeal in pain. Because those squeals were really-deadly-almighty sexy and Nathan didn't need to hear them or else he'd lose his mind and get violent. And he didn't want to hurt Toki. Because he didn't love him more than anything he had never loved before.  
  
No words were spoken as Nathan withdrew his hand and assumed The Position. Toki knew what was coming and tried to relax and yet brace himself at the same time; it slid in fairly easy, still pretty tight, and Nathan kept pressing until Toki let out a shout of "FUCK!" and grimaced in agony.  
  
"Stay calm," Nathan half-growled, half-purred. "Don't tense up."  
  
There were tears in Toki's eyes and he was clenching his teeth.  
  
"Put your legs . . . yeah. Higher. Breathe. You can bite me. Scratch me, anything. Just . . ." He rocked forward and then back, and Toki moaned. "Relax."  
  
Strong arms wrapped around Nathan's shoulders and squeezed, and at the fourth stroke Toki finally let out a long, low snarl of approval. "Oh yeah. Right theres. Again, Nate'n."  
  
Nate'n was only too happy to oblige.  
  
It turned out that Toki was a screamer. Nathan had guessed that long ago and been right. The kid yelled a lot on a regular basis, so it was natural that he'd be just as vocally passionate when he was getting nailed good and hard.  
  
"Ooh yeah," he moaned, eyes closed tight and brows drawn together while Nathan pounded him into the mattress with each mighty grunt-driven thrust. "Oh yeah.  _Fuck_. Oh yeah! Woohooyehh, that's what'm talkin' about YEAH! Hard! Hard! Nnnnh fucks yeah . . ."  
  
It was half sexy and half aggravating—it was Toki summed up in four words.  
  
His legs were spread wide, one held at Nathan's gyrating hip and the other secured beneath one mighty arm. Toki braced himself against the headboard for leverage (and also to keep his head from being driven into the wood) and his arms, though strong, were aching and shaking from the exertion.   
  
Nathan huffed and grunted like a beast, dark hair falling forward and shadowing his face. Nothing could feel better than what he was feeling right now: Toki's warm, tight, slippery body squeezing against his cock like a python with each penetrating thrust, the smell of Toki's sweat and hair and skin, his dribbling cock in his hand, the dull ache as he pulled Nathan's hair and scratched his shoulders, the feeling of those slender legs locked around him. Even with a condom, this was the best fuck Nathan knew he'd ever had in his life. Maybe it was from waiting so long. Maybe it was the risk involved. Maybe it was because he really was gay. Maybe it was just anti-love. Or maybe it wasn't a goddamn thing at all. Whatever it was, he never imagined Toki would feel so great around him, not like this oh no. Not like this. Not this good. Never this good.  
  
"You're perfect," he growled, driving forward until he felt the soft heat of Toki's balls touch his pubic hair. "You feel perfect." In to the hilt. Out halfway. In to the hilt again. The bed squeaked and shook. Toki shrieked in ecstasy and writhed on the massive thing inside him. Nathan didn't even care if the whole haus heard. Let them hear it. This was something worth hearing.  
  
"God I don't love you," he snarled as he sank himself into Toki again and again, faster and faster, quickly driving himself to the brink. "I don't love you so much. Fuck, Toki.  _Fuck_  I don't love you, Toki."  
  
"I fucking . . . OH GODS I fucking . . . doesn't loves. Nate'n, I . . . oh yeah. Oh  _hellig jævla_ —" A string of guttural Norwegian suddenly spilled from Toki's mouth. It sounded vulgar as hell but Nathan really liked it, and when Toki spattered come all over his belly, Nathan released a bellowing death growl, thrusting rapidly and shallowly as he came a few seconds later.  
  
There. It was done. They had done it. And the world was still here. Nothing bad had happened after all.  
  
Nathan hovered on his hands and knees over his anti-lover, and noticed for either the first or millionth time how fucking gorgeous he really was, panting heavily with his eyes closed, tendrils of hair tangled all over his face and snarled into knots in the pillow, and those flushed cheeks and rosy lips that oh Christ he had to kiss them RIGHT NOW—  
  
It was totally gay and not metal to be so sentimental, but Nathan didn't give a damn. He wanted to kiss Toki and nothing was going to stop him. It took Toki by surprise at first, this sudden burst of affection, but he was soon kissing back, reaching up and holding Nathan by the ears until they both had satisfied themselves. They parted slowly, not really knowing when to stop planting shallow kisses on each other's lips. Follow-up kisses. Just-in-case-I-did-something-wrong kisses.  
  
Toki smiled breathlessly and rubbed his rounded nose against Nathan's sharp one. "I understands, I think," he whispered. "De not-love. Because loves are evil. So you un-love me insteads."  
  
"That's right," Nathan replied, sitting up and displaying a rare smirk. "See. I knew you weren't that stupid."  
  
"Just foreign."  
  
Nathan let out a snort of amusement and gingerly peeled off his rubber, tossing it on the floor somewhere and settling back down into bed. Toki, his bathrobe still dangling off one arm, rolled over and nestled against Nathan's side as if that was where he was supposed to be. Nathan wasn't big on cuddling but he decided to make an exception just this once, and discovered that it actually wasn't as bad as he thought it was. Of course, having meaningful intercourse with somebody is bound to bring out some sort of repressed cuddling gene.   
  
Nathan snaked an arm beneath Toki's warm neck and they both found a comfortable way of braiding their bodies together. Their hair was going to be a bitch to comb through tomorrow. But who cared about tomorrow? Not Nathan and Toki, the anti-lovers. No, they weren't going to think about anything yet. It was too early to do that. They were just going to take it easy for now, enjoy the awesome music they had made at the concert and the awesome sex they just had, and give a hearty "fuck you" to everything else.   
  
Because they were still metal motherfuckers. They hadn't changed at all. A monster named love had tried to break them, betray them, make them turn on each other, but anti-love had saved the day. The beast had been slain and they would now grow rich off its carcass. It was a fantastic ending. The fans would win. Dethklok would win. Even that dumbass box office metaphor I had thrown in 5,473 words ago would win. Everything would be alright now. Everything was fine. And the world's greatest band still had plenty of leg room to kick off the ass of the music industry.  
  
Nathan was almost asleep when suddenly his eyes shot open and he stared at the ceiling, petrified. It had come to him just now, of all times, like those little nagging details that don't surface until you're falling asleep six months after the fact and you're so gripped with horror at the heart-stopping recollection that you can hardly seem to move.  
  
"Tuh . . . Toki."  
  
"Mm?" came the sleepy mumble.  
  
". . . When was the last time we fed the rats?"  
  
Silence.  
  
"Oh hells."


	9. The Epilogue

It was all the classic signs of aggression: he took fast, long strides, stomping heavily on his heels, his upper body leaning forward slightly and his arms held away so as to make himself appear larger than he actually was. His fists were clenched, his eyes were narrowed, his jaw was set, his brow was furrowed, and his long hair flapped behind his shoulders with each driven step he took.   
  
"Uh oh," Pickles muttered to Murderface as they witnessed the fury passing through the living room and toward the stairs. "Skwisgaar's on the warpath."  
  
"Whut'sh got hizsh maxshi pad in a knot thish time?" Murderface muttered, munching a knife-speared piece of leftover pizza with his eyes glued to the TV.  
  
"Dunno. Ey! Skwiss! Skwisgaar!"  
  
No reply. Murderface and Pickles turned their heads to look at each other before leaping up off the couch and giving chase.  
  
"Heh heh  _dude_. Somebody's about t' get their ass fuckin  _beat_ ," Pickles chuckled in delight.  
  
"I can't wait!" said Murderface gleefully. "Oh I hope it'sh that shtupid ash-hole from third floor room-keeping! He changshed the potpourri pot in the baffroom and now it shmellzsh like rainforeshts. I  _hate_  rainforeshts."  
  
They followed the angry Swede at a safe distance and he led them right into the conference room where Nathan and Toki sat with Ofdensen, discussing last-minute details about the CD cover for the studio recording of  _Dungeons & Ratguts_. Skwisgaar banged open the double doors and strode purposefully toward the table, grabbing a conveniently club-shaped Steinberger guitar from the wall display as he passed. Toki and Nathan stood from their chairs.  
  
"Skwisgaar?" Toki asked. "What's are you—"  
  
"Gets down," he said.  
  
Toki hit the floor, and Skwisgaar drew back the Steinberger and smashed it over Nathan's shoulder with a mighty CUH-RACK! Nathan was down, roaring like a lion. Then Skwisgaar was on top of him and trying to stab his thumbs through Nathan's windpipe. Toki yodeled a Viking war cry and scrambled over to grapple Skwisgaar about the waist. Pickles and Murderface cheered from the sidelines while Ofdensen took off his glasses and massaged his eyes in dismay. It was a typical Thursday.  
  
"You's a fucking cock's bastard!" Skwisgaar ranted, attempting to dislodge as much of Nathan's hair as possible while Toki tried to put his gangly opponent in a full nelson. "How dares you!? Mother's pussy fucking ass dildos-sucking piece of bitch dog's shits—" Every bad English word he knew, in one big run-on sentence.  
  
Nathan, senses recovered from the initial blow, grabbed Skwisgaar by his incredibly breakable wrists and snarled, "How dare I what?"  
  
"FUCKS TOKI!"  
  
The silence that fell right then was utterly perfect. Then Murderface started to laugh. "Hohohooooh  _schit_. Like in the backdoor?"  
  
"I can believe it," Pickles muttered, shaking his head. "Yep. We're Fagklok now. Change the name, Chuck. It's official."  
  
"Charles," Ofdensen corrected, then turned his attention to the apparent lover's quarrel. "Hello? Boys? Yes? Over here, good. Can we stop behaving like children and—"  
  
"Nathan's mades de sex wis Toki!" Skwisgaar blurted. "Toki's was nots in beds de later dat day! I talks to de room's keeping dat night afters de concert and—"  
  
"Skwisgaar. Nobody likes a tattletale . . . or a sore loser. So why don't you—"  
  
Ofdensen didn't get a chance to finish because Nathan grabbed a chunk of Skwisgaar hair and proceeded to lay the smackdown. Toki was ranting and raving and not really being much help, and it was impossible to get a word in edgewise.  
  
"Alright. You know what? Fuck it. Knock each other's blocks off. I'm going to lunch." Ofdensen gathered his portfolio and made for the door. "Try not to spill too much blood on the rug. They just cleaned it last week. Pickles, are you coming or not?"

Pickles rolled his eyes at the thought of missing out on the rest of the fight, but nevertheless followed Ofdensen through the doors, leaving Murderface to watch the battle unfold. After a witnessing a good five minutes of hair-pulling and face-slapping, he sighed and shook his head in disappointment.

"Pashthetic. Thish could take forever." He walked over the small riot and just very nonchalantly dropped an 8-inch Buck knife on the floor beside them. "There ya go, kidzsh. Have fun." And then he walked away.  
  
You probably already know where this is going but I'll tell you anyway: Skwisgaar, having the advantage of being on top of Nathan, was able to wrestle one arm free, reach out and grab the knife, and in a fit of blind rage, stab it into Nathan's body. Right through the liver, actually. Nathan let out a scream that made the yard wolves outside scatter into the woods like roaches, broke Skwisgaar's nose in a sucker punch, and then wrenched the knife from his torso. Blood. Went.  _Everywhere_.  
  
Nathan looked at the crimson river running out of his body and forming a pool on the floor, and uttered a throaty "Brutal" before passing out.  
  
"NO! NATHAN!" Toki watched his man fall and grabbed Skwisgaar by the collarbone. It was on now. The Swede didn't stand a chance.  
  
"SKWISGAAAAAAAAR!  _JÆVLA SVENSKAAAAAAAAAAAA!_ " 

Skwisgaar and Nathan shared a room on the fourth floor of Saint En's hospital. Skwisgaar was in traction and Nathan was recovering from a recent liver transplant. And the rug in the conference room was utterly ruined. Ofdensen was most displeased. It was actually sort of lucky that Nathan had been stabbed because his latest alcoholic binge had run up the mileage on his old liver and it needed to be replaced right away. He made sure to thank Skwisgaar for that, but he hadn't spoken a word to him yet. And it wasn't because he couldn't talk. He could still do that. He just couldn't go to the bathroom without professional assistance.  
  
They sat quietly in their room and watched The Dethklok Minute on the TV in the corner, narrated by the way-too-happy host:   _"—what is being called Dethklok's greatest album yet,_ Dungeons & Ratguts _performed live at Mordland is on its way to triple platinum since its release at eight o'clock this morning, beating Dethklok's previous record of triple platinum in ten hours with_ Dethwater _._  
  
" _Much is to be said about the band's latest CD;_   _aside from being an onslaught of musical masterwork, some metal mayhem reportedly took place on stage during the final song, which is being called the crown jewel of the album,_ A Monster Named Love _. It is the first love song ever released by Dethklok and already it has risen to #1 on the charts, eclipsing every love song ever written and subsequently causing Journey fans everywhere to burn albums and adopt the ideology that love doesn't have to be for wimps and emo losers anymore. Sentimentalists have gone heavy metal, making Dethklok's fanbase increase by millions worldwide._  
  
" _The story behind_  A Monster Named Love  _is still being explored;_   _rhythm guitarist Toki Wartooth supposedly usurped Nathan Explosion's vocals and the two dueled out a duet that still has fans rioting with excitement in the streets. Norway has declared a national day of recognition in honor of Toki's courageous achievement in the realm of music, and also in surpassing Erik the Red as the most famous Norwegian of all time. Will there be more vocals in Toki's future? That remains to be seen, but frontman Nathan Explosion was quoted as saying that he looks forward to working more closely with Toki in both personal and musical endeavors. Be sure to pick up a copy of_ Dungeons & Ratguts _at your nearest-_ "  
  
"You's a evil mother's fucker, Explosion," Skwisgaar muttered. "A evil fucking bastard."  
  
"What're  _you_  griping about?"  
  
"Uh, let's me sees: I gots three brokens rib, a concession, a brokens collar's bone, internal bloodings and two bust knee's cap. I am outs of knee."  
  
"Just be glad Toki didn't break all your fingers . . . you ungrateful shit."  
  
"Ungratesful? Pfft. You knows what ungratesful? Dat little bitch-boy-brat,  _he's_  ungratesful. After alls I dids to helps him . . ." Naturally pouty lips pouted even more.  
  
"Look. I know you two're like . . . whatever. Bee eff eff or something. And it's kinda sweet how you're all protective of him—"  
  
"Fucks you, Nathan."  
  
"—but I had sex with him first and you're just gonna have to deal with that."  
  
Skwisgaar was quiet for a while, translating his anger into English. Then he went off like a shotgun: "I don't knows who are you thinks you's are, fuckings arounds with whosever you wants, but you doesn't fucks Toki. Toki's is not for fuckings—"  
  
"Shut the fuck up. You goddamn hypocrite. You bang chicks by the half-dozen and get no shit from any of us, but I can't fuck my own bandmate whom I actually  _like_. That's a—"  
  
"Ladies is different! Dey don't means anythings to me, but Toke . . . ngk."  
  
Nathan smiled craftily at the unintentional slip. "Aww. Toki's real special to you, huh?"  
  
Skwisgaar narrowed his bruised eyes and crossed his bandaged arms. "Shuts up."  
  
"Okay. Look. If I promise not to hurt him, will you back off and leave us alone?"  
  
"So you's two cans fucking goes at it's likes dey do on de Discovery Channel? Hells no. I'll bothers you until everything's is normal agains."  
  
"You know, Toki can keep putting you back in the hospital. He's gonna get pissed if you don't start minding your own bee's nest, Skwisgaar."  
  
Boo-2-tha-yah. Skwisgaar just got pwned by his own saying. He was not happy. "I not talks to yous anymore," he muttered, slumping down in the hospital bed. "Go eats a mountains of shit and dies."  
  
Nathan grumbled a sigh. He shouldn't give a damn but he did. Maybe he was getting soft. Or maybe he knew just a little bit about what Skwisgaar was feeling toward Toki. Because Toki grew on you whether you anti-loved him or not, and he was really hard to get over.  
  
"You know, Skwisgaar . . ." Nathan climbed out of his bed and lumbered over to Skwisgaar's. "When you stabbed me back there. That was pretty fuckin noble. Stupid . . . but noble."  
  
Skwisgaar pfffted and deliberately turned his head away.  
  
"You were looking out for Toki's own good and just . . . trying to protect him from me. I don't care how big of a selfish dickhead you are, that was righteous. Shows how much he means to you. He's . . . real lucky to have a friend like you."  
  
"Goes to de hell, Nath—" Skwisgaar's chin was suddenly in Nathan's hand and his head was turned to Nathan who . . . had a very strange yet vaguely familiar look in his eyes.  
  
"Your friendship with him is the most metal thing ever," he growled softly. "I'm not gonna steal him from you, Skwisgaar. I mean . . . the fact that you even give a shit about another human being is . . . the most . . . God, it's—" Nathan stopped all at once. His eyes grew large. His face blanched. And he looked down to discover that he had just popped a  _huge boner_. Skwisgaar followed his eyes and reacted with even greater horror, drawing back as far as he could with a mixture of panic and disgust making a hell of an expression on his already hellacious looking face. The two bandmates met each other's gaze.  
  
"Oh no," Nathan uttered. "Not this shit again."

"Yes," said the author. "The end. Thank you all."

_Additional thanks to:_

_and also Eddie Izzard, Fred Astaire, Zoloft, Bowie and Buck brand hunting knives, SAUSAGE FESTIVAL, the Norwegian government, The Cucumbrian Wisconsinite of Inebriated Wisdom, the InterTran English-to-Swedish-and-Back-Again dictionary, the Mordhaus staff, anti-love, Chuck the Manager, and all of you metal-loving motherfuckers who supported this godless endeavor. Thanks for everything._ _I don't love you less than nothing I've never loved in my life._


End file.
